Heart On Your Sleeve, Like You've Never Been Loved
by Melissa Alexander
Summary: Jonsa Gladiator AU written for Jonsa Kink Week on Tumblr - Trapped in a loveless arranged marriage, a chance encounter with one of Margaery's gladiators makes Sansa question how dutiful she can truly be to her husband, when it's a stranger—High Garden's champion, Jon—who ignites within her a passion she's never known. A dark!jon fic - rated for language and sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fic is being written for the Tumblr Jonsa Kink Week event, and will encompass themes from the entire week.

 _Chapter 1 - Day 1: dark!jon_

Please note: I've combined both Westerosi and ancient Rome/Roman Empire history here. Tommen has been aged up, and pretend for my sake, that all the great houses are MUCH closer to Kings Landing (and just closer to each other in general). Basically, it's my world and you're living in it! lol

 **Heart On Your Sleeve, Like You've Never Been Loved**

 _Heart on your sleeve, like you've never been loved._

Running in circles, now look what you've done.

Give you my word as you take it and run.

Wish you'd let me stay, I'm ready now

-Friends, Chase Atlantic

* * *

 **Chapter One: Face It, You Want It, You Crave It**

The enormous crowd of the colosseum humming in her ears, Sansa snaps her little hand-held fan open and flutters it lightly against her face, already dewy with perspiration. Whilst she does not condone bloodsport, the excited thrum of energy in the arena is palpable and infectious, and a flicker of anticipation sparks within her belly, despite herself.

She raises a dainty hand, squinting against the sun's harsh rays, and lets her palla slip down to the middle of her back so that her heated skin might breathe. One would think that nearly a year in the Capital would have accustomed her to the warmer climate, but it is not so.

A sharp disapproving scowl from her husband reminds Sansa that it is not just the climate that she's having trouble acclimating to. Joffrey tugs her palla back up to where _he_ deems respectable, his fingers digging possessively into the curve of her waist—as if daring her to let the silk cover-up slip again. She was always so quick to provoke his ire, despite her pointed efforts of being the demure and dutiful wife that society expected of her—that _he_ expected of her—as the wife of a Senator's son.

Love? Well, that was another thing entirely. An arranged marriage did not require love; if a couple was fortunate, that often came later with time, as it had with her own parents. It would not be so for Sansa. And while she had not entered into this marriage with her heart closed, Joffrey had slammed that door in her face on their wedding night.

 _Those_ thoughts were not for today though, Sansa chides herself, ceasing her fanning momentarily so that her mother-in-law—already deep into her cups—could press an unaffectionate kiss to her cheek. Margaery and Tommen had been invited to test the strength of High Garden's most prominent Gladiators against the champions of the Empire—a great honor, and Sansa and Joffrey were to be their guests, in their own private box, just above that of the Emperor's.

"Sister!" Margaery squeals delightedly, hauling her out of Joffrey's grasp so that she could throw her own arms around her. "How I have missed you! Do say you'll come back to High Garden with us for a visit? We've much catching up to do."

Perhaps one of her only genuinely _true_ friends here, Sansa returns her sister-in-law's embrace with gusto. "If my husband is agreeable," she nods, accepting the goblet of wine thrust into her hand.

Margaery rounds on Joffrey immediately, refusing to accept no for an answer, until he finally acquiesces to the persistent charms of his younger brother's wife—but then, who could refuse Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon, anyway?

"It's settled, then." Margaery claps her hands together excitedly before tugging Sansa's palla free from her shoulders and draping it over one of the chairs. "Are you mad? It's too warm to be trussed up so, silly girl."

Sansa steals a nervous glance at her husband, who sneers momentarily before pasting a fake smile on his thin lips, and leaves them be to converse with the other noblemen who'd joined them in the box. As Margaery turns to greet her newly arrived guests, Sansa quickly snatches her palla up, draping it back around her shoulders before settling herself into the unoccupied chair it had been draped upon, and snaps her fan open again.

"Such lovely stitches." Cersei runs her fingers along the embroidered edges of Sansa's palla as she seats herself beside her. "Best to protect that delicate skin of yours from the relentless sun, little dove," she adds before taking a hearty swallow from her goblet, her mouth twitching into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I do hope you pass some livelier color onto my grandchildren, though."

Sansa stiffens at her mother-in-law's choice of words, as her insecurities regarding her inability to conceive stab like a dagger in her heart—as Cersei had intended, Sansa's sure. For a wife had one duty to her husband: to give him heirs. And on that front, Sansa was thus far failing miserably.

"No worries, Mother." Margaery slips her arm over Cersei's shoulders and inserts her face between the two women. "We know you're eager to have your arms full of grandchildren, and I for one am putting in a valiant effort." Her eyes flit to her own husband—nearly seven years her junior—as her lips twist into a smirk. "Tommen certainly isn't lacking in stamina. But alas, if only your sons had inherited their father's virility."

Now it is Cersei who stiffens, her mouth pulling into that same bland smile before she attacks her goblet once more. Senator Baratheon's penchant for fathering a string of bastards throughout their seventeen-year marriage was no secret; but then again, neither were his wife's extracurricular activities—both of which their great deal of wealth and power caused most of Westeros to turn a blind eye.

"Slide down, Mother," Margaery chirps, setting Cersei's teeth to gnashing as she relocates a few seats over so that Margaery could occupy the space beside Sansa. "Are you excited?" she asks, threading their fingers together in her lap, eyes sparkling and a grand smile tugging at her lovely little heart-shaped lips.

Sansa merely nods. This was to be her first time witnessing a battle of Gladiators, and perhaps excitement wasn't the word that fit, but she _is_ overjoyed at finally breaking free of the confines of Casterly Rock.

Positioned at the edge of the Capital, jutting out of the mighty cliffs that hung over the Sunset Sea, her new family's ancestral home does not lack beauty, but rather the warmth she'd left behind in Winterfell. It made her ache for children all the more profound, wanting to fill the empty echoing halls with laughter and love—sons and daughters in the image of her siblings, whom she misses dearly with each passing day.

The rumbling of drums brings the hum of the crowd to a halt as the Emperor Viserys and his sister-wife Daenerys suddenly appears. Sansa cannot decide which of the two is more beautiful as everyone stands abruptly, watching as they cross the arena, flanked by the imperial guard. They float in the finest tunics and robes of cream and gold silk, their jeweled hands clasped regally at shoulder level as they ascend the stairs to their box just below.

"Look." Margaery points at the Senators crossing thereafter, Sansa's father Eddard amongst them—his grey direwolf sash slung over his bleached white tunic making him easy to pick out from the lot of them.

Sansa's heart swells at the sight of him. She'd only just seen him no more than a fortnight ago when he'd come to sup with her father-in-law whilst they argued over duties and taxation of imports, but they had been working, so she'd made herself scarce. Now when he catches sight of her, he waves, his usually solemn face immediately perking up as he climbs the steps and takes his seat within the Emperor's box, as duty compelled.

Only when the drums' thumping ceases does everyone once again take their seats, Joffrey quickly sliding into the empty one beside Sansa, as Tommen takes the one next to his own wife. From the peripheral of her vision, Sansa can't help but watch how he clasps Margaery's hand in his own, bringing her fingers to his lips before folding them gently in his lap. She would get no such romantic overtures from her own husband. No soft touches or declarations of love, or even a tender word.

As a child, she'd always known that Joffrey would one day be her husband. Their fathers had grown up together, had been the best of friends, and it only seemed fitting to officially unite the families through marriage. She'd pined for him then—Joffrey of the house Baratheon, the Golden Lion-Stag, so handsome and poised.

Sansa had thought her wedding day the happiest of her life. Draped in the finest silks of white and grey, a crown of winter roses woven into her plaits and piled high atop her head, and all her loved ones in attendance. She'd never felt more beautiful, and Joffrey had pounced at every opportunity to tell her so. By the time he'd whisked her to their bedchamber, she'd been nervous, but prepared for what was to come—Mother had seen to that.

But Mother had been wrong. _So wrong._

Joffrey didn't kiss her, nor caress her lovingly, or whisper how beautiful she was, as he had all day before their guests. Instead he spun her 'round and pushed her face-down into their marriage bed, his hands rough, fingers digging into her tender flesh as he rucked up her tunic and cruelly forced himself inside of her without bothering to remove any of their clothing— _or_ prepare her virginal body. He'd taken her from behind like a common animal, like he couldn't even bear to look at her. And afterwards, he'd left her to her maiden's blood and tears of shame.

After that initial night, Joffrey only returned to her chambers twice every fortnight, unless she was on her bleeding cycle. Sometimes she lies and tells him she still is. Where he spends his nights, she does not know, and she tells herself that's probably for the best. He'd exercised his marital duties just two nights ago, so she'd been granted a reprieve from his attentions again, at least for a little while…

Suddenly the drums begin beating again—primitive and wildly, startling Sansa from the unpleasant turn of her thoughts, and compelling her to lean forward for a better view. The gates on either side of the arena rattle, then burst open, and the crowd begins to roar with applause as the Gladiators march in two straight lines from either side—twelve of them, meeting each other face-to-face in the middle.

"Here they are!" Margaery exclaims, leaning forward and linking her arm with Sansa's.

"Which are yours?" Sansa wants to know, as she takes in their sun-bronzed bodies and extraordinary physiques—like etched marble statues come to life, but kissed by the sun.

"Those three." Margaery points and Sansa's eyes follow. "And that one _there_ , he is our champion."

Initially, Sansa is shocked as she sets sight upon the _Champion_ of High Garden. He's much smaller in stature in comparison to the hulking men who surround him on all sides—but he's lean, his muscles strong and well-defined, and upon further inspection, he looks every bit just as powerful as his opponents.

"You underestimate him?" Margaery seems to have slipped inside of her mind, as she leans closer and whispers, "So will all of them, and that is _why_ he'll be victorious today."

"Mighty presumptuous of you," Joffrey sniffs, swirling his wine goblet in a very Cersei-like fashion.

"Not at all, dear brother," Margaery happily lays her trap. "Just confident. Perhaps you'd care to place a wager?"

Joffrey scoffs and turns up his nose. "Why would I wager with you? You've nothing to offer me."

"She has anything at my disposal, brother," Tommen pipes up from beside his wife. "Name your price."

Joffrey considers, his pride no longer allowing him to back out. He thumbs his lip, the sun catching the variety of rings decorating his fingers. His thin lips curl and he smirks. "One of your Gladiators. _My_ choice."

"Done!" Margaery claps. "And should you lose, Sansa remains with me at High Garden until summer's end."

"Agreed."

Sansa doesn't know know why she cringes when he so readily agrees to being rid of her the entire summer. She knows it's not because he thinks he'll lose their wager, either. And it isn't even as if she should care, with the way Joff treats her; she should be quite happy—relieved, really—with his indifference. But there is a part of her that yearns for affection still, and it's that part that watches Tommen tattoo kisses up Margaery's wrist as if it's as natural to him as breathing, that part that can't help but be envious, and Sansa wonders why she doesn't deserve that too—and it's _that_ part of her that weeps silently from within.

The other part of her—the logical one that tempers her silly notions of romanticism—is thrilled at the prospect of being rid of her neglectful husband and his vindictive mother for an entire season. With all the more reason to be invested in the upcoming fight, Sansa leans forward with renewed interest, her curiosity piqued.

The Gladiators raise their weapons of choice. Bodies primed yet tense, they circle each other in a dance of intimidation as the arena descends into a deathly quiet. Sansa doesn't even realize she's holding her breath until suddenly the clash of hard steel shatters the deafening silence, and the amphitheater roars to life with the chants and cries of its patrons.

Captivated, she watches as one by one they crumble and fall—not in death, but surrender—bodies bent, broken and bloodied, until only three of twelve remain. But there is only one to whom Sansa's eyes return to again and again, his agile body deflecting blow after blow, as he moves with the lithe grace of a practiced dancer. He carries no shield, but two swords, and he swings them as if they were weightless.

He's a glorious sight to behold, the powerful muscles in his arms flexing and bunching, dirt-caked and sun-kissed. The other two Gladiators—twice his size and heavy with armor—round on him. _Clang clang_ , the steel screams as it collides, and Sansa's heart works its way into her throat as he battles them both simultaneously.

The crowd is a living thing, it heaves and sighs as one of his swords goes skidding into the dirt, and he takes an elbow to the face, head snapping backwards. He stumbles, then spins, and his foot connects with the breastplate of one rival, to catapult himself into the other.

And then there were two.

Her pulse skipping wildly against her throat, horrified and mesmerized, Sansa is unable to tear her eyes away as the beautiful dance of chaos rages on. Clashing together, then shoving apart—together—apart—the singing of steel echoes through the arena, a cadence of violence and untempered strength.

Chest heaving, muscles straining, his sword shrieks as it's flung from his grasp, and Sansa's composure momentarily slips—unable to stifle the audible gasp that pushes past her lips, unbidden. Wasting no time, he lunges for his weapon, his hand curling around the hilt as he tucks and rolls; and in a beat, he's back on his feet again, sword swinging and charging harder than before.

She feels the bite of Joffrey's fingers as they slither 'round her wrist, vaguely hears Margaery whispering at her ear, but Sansa ignores it— _ignores them all_ , her heart fluttering wildly, eyes transfixed. The other Gladiator begins to tire, the heavy weight of his armor dragging him down.

Their swords cross; the sharp, piercing sound of screaming steel reverberates through the colosseum as they slide against each other, battling for dominance. A test of strength, of heart and perseverance—and with one sharp, well-placed elbow to the gut, the bigger Gladiator finally falls.

He hits the ground hard, puffs of dirt swirling into the air between himself and his smaller but triumphing assailant. And _yet_ , he does _not_ relent—clumsily swinging his sword, even as his opponent reduces his wooden shield to splinters. The crowd hums excitedly, bloodlust crackling through the arena like a toxic aphrodisiac, as the battle wages on.

 _Breathe._ Her breasts heave against the sudden constricting tightness of her tunic, her skin flushed, damp with perspiration, body hot. _Dry._ Her mouth is dry. Sansa flicks her tongue against her lips to wet them, her knuckles whitening against the grip of her fan. Joffrey's own grip tightens, pressing deeper into her wrist, but Sansa pays him no mind, lost in a daze as one final, shuddering blow sends the hulking Gladiator's sword clattering to the ground.

A soft cry spills from between Sansa's parted lips, as the crowd erupts in a thundering storm of applause. They chant for him—the _Champion of High Garden_ , as he waits, chest heaving, sword poised to strike, for the Emperor to decide the fate of his fallen foe.

A thumbs-up indicates a reprieve for a battle fought hard and well. His face emotionless, the Champion tosses his sword into the dirt—no more than an afterthought—and struts out of the arena.

"What's gotten into you?" Joffrey's voice hisses in her ear—the slithering tongue of a serpent. He jerks Sansa back into her chair, the rest of his words dying on his lips as Margaery enacts her bragging rights.

"No congratulations necessary, dear brother." She smiles cheekily, her own hand wrapping 'round Sansa's other wrist to tug her from his grasp yet again. "Perhaps you'll consider more wisely before betting against High Garden's Champion again?"

Joffrey's grip relaxes under Margaery's watchful gaze. "Perhaps." He nods and rises from his chair to mingle with the other nobility once again.

"And you, love?" Margaery turns a curious eye on Sansa. "How did you enjoy your first match in the arena?"

Sansa blinks. "I, uhm—I—"

"Hmm. That's what I thought." Margaery smiles wickedly, one perfectly winged brow quirking into a typical, _oh-so-Margaery_ expression. "Care to join me in the pits for a little up-close and personal viewing?"

She stands abruptly, pulling Sansa with her. "I must speak to Davos about the transport of my strapping fellows," Margaery adds, with a saucy wink.

* * *

Sansa pulls her palla more snuggly 'round her shoulders. It was not the chill nor dampness in the place that Margaery called "the pits" that causes her to do so—but the leering stares of the men ensconced in the various cells that line the corridors. They ogle and gape at the women, some spit disrespectfully in their direction, and others mutter the most undignified things.

With a haughty shake of her graceful neck, Margaery pulls Sansa closer, linking their arms, her gaze never faltering as she stares straight ahead. "Ignore them. They can't hurt you."

The flickering torchlight guiding their way, Sansa follows her sister-in-law's lead, doing her damnedest not to break her stride or let her eyes stray as they move deeper under the colosseum. She was just being silly. The imperial guards are but a stone's throw away, and the cell doors are all locked, are they not?

"Domina," a gruff man's voice, heavy with a foreign accent that Sansa does not recognize, greets them—specifically Margaery, as they round the next corner. "You should not be here—"

Whatever he is about to say stalls on his tongue as Margaery waves her hand dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous, Davos. We're perfectly safe here with you."

"Of course, Domina." He immediately calms and ducks his head. _Another_ man beguiled by Margaery's charms, Sansa thinks to herself, wishing she could bottle and wear her essence.

"Sansa, this is Ser Davos, our esteemed Doctore, and once a mighty champion himself. Now he trains our Gladiators and makes them champions." Margaery pats him affectionately on the arm before continuing her introductions. "And Davos, this is my dear sweet sister and most beloved friend, Sansa. She'll be spending the summer with us in High Garden—" she gives him her signature wink "—thanks to you and our Champion."

Davos nods and smiles warmly, keeping his eyes lowered as a sign of respect. "Lady Sansa. Perhaps you'd like a tour of the Ludus? See the Gladiators train?"

"I'd like that," Sansa agrees, then takes a step back as Margaery slips seamlessly into instruction on their immediate departure for High Garden.

Sansa is content to stand by as her friend issues orders that, thanks to her inherent charisma, sound more like polite requests. Soon, though, her mind begins to wander and her feet with it. A jangle of chains draws her curiously towards the cell in the corner, her sandals padding quietly in the soft dirt beneath her, until she's peering into its shadowy depths.

She does not so much as see, but rather _feels_ his gaze upon her—raking the length of her body so intensely that she can track the movements of his eyes by the goosebumps that raise on her porcelain skin, and the continuous shiver down her spine that follows. She startles, stifling a gasp as his fingers suddenly curl around the bars, and sets her pulse skipping erratically against her throat.

His warm breath hits her face, arresting grey eyes pinning her in place, so that she couldn't move—even if she wanted to. She isn't sure she wants to.

 _The Champion of High Garden._

He's more impressive than she'd ever imagined. The flames of the torches lick at his body—a canvas of sharp angles and hard planes, woven together by corded muscle and marred by wounds both healed and fresh. Sansa's fingers itch to trace the puckered flesh, to see what it might feel like beneath her fingertips…

Almost as soon as the thought comes, unbidden, to her mind, Sansa chastises herself for it. She is a highborn lady, a married woman—with no business ogling some half-naked man she hasn't even so much as been properly introduced to.

No matter how magnificent he is. And he _is_.

As he tilts his head—inspecting her as she does him—a riot of dampened black curls tumble across his forehead, and a peculiar urge to sweep them back overcomes Sansa. To push her hands into his hair and run her fingers through— _Seven save her_ , what has come over her?

"Come to prowl the pits and see the caged animals, princess?" His voice crackles in the space between them, hoarse and laced with bitterness.

Sansa is taken aback, unsure what she's done to provoke his ire so. She takes a deep breath, the corners of her mouth pulling into a polite smile, trying her hand at a little Margaery charm. "You are a skilled fighter, Ser."

"I am skilled at a great many things," he tosses back without missing a beat, his eyes traveling the length of her body. He flicks his tongue against his lips.

She's not sure what he's about, but her pulse skips anyway as she watches him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, as his gaze dips to the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. She's panting— _when did that happen?_ Sansa casts her eyes to the dirt floor, a blush creeping from her cheeks to the tips of her ears, afraid she'll burst into flames from the heat suddenly coiling deep within her belly.

She's not sure what _that's_ about, either. Nervous, she fiddles with the tassels of her palla and tries to gather her bearings.

 _Clang_ —the clink of chains, the scrape of iron—powerful arms snake through the bars of the Gladiator's cage with the striking speed of a whip. His hands snatch the ends of her palla and he gives a tug, dragging her slowly towards him. Sansa digs in her heels, heart racing so that she cannot even find her voice to cry out for help—trapped in the silken folds of her own clothing. Powerless to stop his intentions, Sansa stumbles forward as he hauls her against the bars— _against him._

Her hands come up, a useless barrier, palms flat against the smooth expanse of his leather breastplate—warmed from the sun and the heat of his skin. Sansa pushes against his massive chest, staring helplessly at the perfect symmetry of his sculpted shoulders, the smudges of blood and dirt mottling the skin of his long arms—but it's of no use. He's immovable.

He leans so that his face is pressing against the bars, hot breath ghosting across her cheek, her palla still clutched in his massive hands. "You highborn women are all the same, turning up your pretty noses, gawking at us _animals_ as we pace our cages."

He rubs the silk between his fingertips, as if bemused by its softness. "Such finery…" His eyes raise to hers—two smoldering embers flickering in the fire's light, his face half-bathed in shadow. "And your dress too. Befitting of a princess. Aren't you afraid you'll soil it down here in the muck and filth?"

Sansa shakes her head only the slightest of twitches. She cannot speak. Her breath rasps between dry lips, the tip of her tongue darting out automatically to wet them.

He tracks the movement, eyes fixed on the shape of her mouth now, studying her intently under hooded lashes. "Of course not. Your fancy husband will just buy you a new one then, won't he? I bet you have plenty."

He shifts the ends of her palla to one hand, lifting the other to graze his finger along the curve of her jaw. "Blue to match the color of your eyes. Red like your hair… your lips."

Sansa shudders at his touch, however soft; he sneers in response, his lips peeling back into a feral snarl. "Does he tear them off you, too?" He yanks sharply on the palla, pulling her closer still—the cool iron of the bars digging into her soft flesh. "Does he?" the Gladiator demands again.

Her answering _no_ is naught but a wisp of warm air that slips past her lips in a broken stutter.

"I would." His finger follows the path where his eyes had feasted earlier, slipping down the hollow of her throat to dip between the valley of her breasts—heaving against his brazen caress. "Tear those pretty silks from you with my teeth, worship your soft body with my mouth… my tongue…"

"Please…" Sansa whimpers, her pulse jumping so wildly under her skin, she fears her heart will burst. A mistake—she twists her head, but Margaery is still occupied, unaware of her plight.

"Aye." He nods his head, using her slip to his advantage, and presses his face against hers—beard rasping against her delicate skin, hot breath in her ear. "Please you I would, princess. Get my face between your legs—in your pretty little cunt."

He inhales sharply, his next words riding the shuddering breath he expels against her throat: "Bet you taste as sweet as you smell. Are you kissed by fire down there, too?"

Her eyelashes flutter against her flushed cheeks. Sansa clamps her mouth shut over the strangled cry that claws its way up her throat. Lightheaded, she rocks against him.

" _Yes_ , just like that," he groans against her ear as he catches her lobe between his teeth, stirring the loose tendrils of her hair. "Would you cry out my name, princess? Beg for my cock? I would gladly give it to you."

Her lips part, the coiling heat in her belly blossoming throughout her limbs like the sweetest warm honey. _Yes_ —it's perched at the tip of her tongue as he draws back to gaze into the storm raging behind her blue eyes, her skin prickly where he's touched.

The hold on her palla slackens as his hands glide the length of her arms—palms still pressed flat against his chest, his own heart hammering beneath the warm leather. His large hands dwarf her own as he covers them, calloused palms turning them over to caress her where her pulse quickens _still._

His eyes flash suddenly, lips curling up in a snarl at the angry purple bruises that mar the delicate skin on the underside of her wrist—five distinct fingerprints— _Joffrey's._ Sansa is suddenly self-conscious, her brows furrowing as she takes a hasty step backwards, released from the silken bonds of her palla, as his own grip on her loosens.

"Did your husband do that to you?" He asks, thumbs brushing gentle circles over her marked flesh—his dark eyes softening, earnest, as they seek her own. "I wouldn't."

"Filthy slave! Away with you, beast!" The guard materializes out of nowhere.

Sansa startles, pulling free just in time as— _clang_ —the hilt of his sword smacks the bars and connects with the Gladiator's knuckles. He hisses in pain, jerking back abruptly—her palla slipping from his grasp to float carelessly to the dirt below.

"No, stop!" Sansa pleads for the guard to cease as Margaery and Davos rush to her aid.

"What's the meaning of this?" Margaery demands of the guard, shoving in front of Sansa protectively. "By what right do you put your hands on my man?"

"Filthy prick was touching the lady, stole her clothing!" He flicks the point of his sword towards the rumpled silk on the ground.

"He stole nothing, I gave it to him." Sansa swoops around Margaery's defensive stance to scoop up her palla, shaking the dirt from it before she thrusts her arm through the bars, hand outstretched. "A gift for the Champion of High Garden. For a battle well fought, Ser," she adds, inclining her head.

Hesitantly, he reaches for her offered palla. Sansa cannot contain the blush that stains her cheeks when his fingers intentionally sweep across her injured wrist in the exchange. There's a million things she wants to say, as Margaery tucks an arm around her waist and begins leading her away, going on about leaving Joffrey to her when he broaches the subject of his wife's missing palla—as _surely_ , he will.

"Jon—"

The Gladiator's voice calling after her prompts Sansa to turn to the sound, her gaze catching his over her shoulder as she allows herself to be led from the pits. His eyes are soft still, sincere, as he watches her go with the air of a man whose dearest wish is that she'd stay.

His grip on her palla is as strong as it had been when he'd held her to him—but his thumbs are gentle as he caresses the silk—and he calls to her again, "My name is Jon."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Believe When I Say That You'll Know Once You Taste It**

Face it

you want it,

you crave it…

 _Believe when I say that you'll know once you taste it_

\- Friends, Chase Atlantic

* * *

The warm breeze stirs her hair as Sansa sips on her second goblet of wine this evening. The air is rich with the fragrant scents of the lush gardens resting under the balcony where they supped.. It mingles with the salty mists of the nearby ocean, calming—enchanting almost, as the spray catches on the pink hues of the setting sun, glistening like brilliant gems.

Sansa inhales deeply. The scent of freedom. She tastes it in the wine she drinks, the air she breathes, the smooth feel of the tunic wrapped loosely 'round her body—borrowed from her hosts' wardrobe, as Margaery had insisted they leave for High Garden posthaste.

Somewhere, someone plucks the strings of a cithara; its sweet melody carries softly to Sansa's ears as Margaery sets another lemon cake before her, encouraging her to continue on in her indulgent behavior.

"Thank you, really, I've had plenty." Sansa shakes her head politely, pushing at her dessert plate.

Margaery doesn't mince words. She nudges the plate back at her, eyes narrowed with that no-nonsense look she adopts whenever she's about to lecture Sansa on her passivity. "Plenty by Sansa's standards, or Joffrey's?"

Sansa plucks the cake off her plate and pops it into her mouth. She truly is fit to burst, but there's an immensely satisfying thrill she gets at deliberately defying her husband while he's none the wiser for it.

"Ugh, he really is a cunt, isn't he?" Olenna Tyrell rolls her eyes, and sips her wine.

"Grandmother!" Margaery feigns shock, unable to keep herself from laughing when Sansa breaks into a bout of giggles, tipsy from her overindulgence.

"The image of his mother," Olenna snorts with indifference, continuing her rant as she reaches to refill Sansa's goblet. "How Tommen came out of that wretched woman still escapes me."

"Ahem," Tommen coughs and clears his throat from the entryway. "Did I hear my name?"

"Yes, darling." Margaery beckons him with outstretched arms, and Sansa's heart clenches at how adoringly he drinks his wife in, his eyes alight as he moves eagerly to her side. "But only good things," Margaery adds, smiling at him as he begins to gently massage the day's tension from her shoulders.

"I don't mean to interrupt." He clears his throat again, and his cheeks pinken the slightest bit. "I just uhh—" he lowers his voice, his face flushing now from pink to red "—wondered if I should make plans to head to the baths alone tonight?"

"Why ever would I allow you to do that, my love?" Margaery flutters her eyelashes coquettishly up at him. "Permit me to finish my wine, and I'll join you presently."

"Of course." He presses a kiss to her forehead, and Margaery leans into his lips.

"Ugh, the two of you are liable to give me a toothache. Or an ulcer, maybe both." Olenna rolls her eyes into her goblet again, but her face softens when Tommen bends to kiss her withered cheek affectionately.

"Goodnight, Grandmother." Tommen lets her jape roll off his shoulders, and he makes his way around the table to bid Sansa a good night as well.

She smiles at his chaste kiss and thanks him for his hospitality before he struts back through the entryway like a prized bull. He turns once more to gaze longingly at Margaery, and Sansa wonders if a man will ever look upon her with such reverence. Certainly _not_ her own husband. Olenna is right—he truly _is_ a cunt.

But then Sansa remembers that a man _did_ look upon her in such a way—his grey eyes flickering and darkening in the torchlight, his gaze burning just as hot as the flames that danced in their sconces upon the stone walls. The flex of his fingers as he yanked on her palla to pull her against him, the tempered strength of his muscles bunching underneath his breastplate, where her fingers still itched to touch, to explore.

The scratch of his beard. His breath had been hot on her cheek—in her ear, engulfing her as he took the lobe between his sinful lips… _So sinful_ , Sansa recalls with a curious pang deep in her gut, as his rough, deep groan shuddered into her ear along with all manner of whispered, filthy things. Things that he had no business saying. Things that made her heart flutter and her pulse quicken all the same.

Sansa had watched him strike down an entire arena of gladiators twice his size—yet there was a gentleness in his strength, in the way that he touched her… in the way he'd clutched her palla while she walked away, his eyes imploring her to stay… to make her feel something more than the bruises on her wrist—to make them disappear, as though he had such power to relieve her pain, to replace it with something she'd told herself she could live without, if only because her marriage told her she _had_ to.

 _Did your husband do that to you?_

 _I wouldn't._

His grey eyes gentle and sincere.

 _Jon_. His name was Jon…

"Who's name was Jon?" Margaery's voice snaps Sansa from her reverie, her brows sweeping up dramatically as she studies her with avid interest.

 _Seven save her, had she said that out loud?_

"What? _Oh!_ No one—I mean, I don't know," Sansa foolishly stumbles over her words as she tries to save face. The tips of her ears are burning, and she hopes the color of her hair helps to mask them from her hosts' curious gazes. "I feel perhaps I've had a bit too much wine." But she reaches for her goblet again.

"Or not enough." Margaery purses her lips.

Sansa knows _that_ look—knows when the cogs in Margaery's pretty head have begun to turn. "You shouldn't keep your husband waiting," she says in an attempt to shift the topic and distract her friend.

"He'd pickle in our bath water all night waiting for me if I asked it of him," Margaery laughs. "You thought I was jesting with our dear mother-in-law? While I do love a good quip, I was being perfectly honest. Tommen is rather eager to fill my belly with his sons. And speaking of which, my love, how is your little venture at motherhood coming along?"

"It's not." Sansa feels that sharp pang in her heart again—that creeping emptiness, and the heavy weight of failure that she cannot manage the one simple thing that women's bodies were made to do.

Margaery wrinkles her nose. "But you've always wanted a child, Sansa, I don't understand? Does he not lie with you?"

Sansa tries to stifle the sob that escapes, tries to hold her tears at bay, even as they slip down her cheeks unbidden; warm and salty, they fall to her tunic. But the wine has dulled her senses, robbed her of the ability to compose herself, and so Sansa gives herself over to her grief. "Occasionally. But he can't even bear to look at me. He holds me down and takes me from behind, like—like I am—"

Margaery lifts a hand to halt her words, anger flashing in her usually kind blue eyes. "Stop, or I will kill him."

"See, a damn cunt." Olenna shakes her head, pulls a kerchief from the folds of her dress and presses it in Sansa's hand. "Dry your tears, child. He is not worthy of them, and especially not of your gentle heart."

"Sansa, he doesn't—I mean, is he like Loras?" Margaery asks, reaching across the table to clasp Sansa's free hand in her own. When she doesn't answer, Margaery explains, "Does he, perhaps, prefer the company of men?"

 _Oh!_ It was something Sansa had considered, but who was she to say? _Does it even matter?_ Even if Joffrey's proclivities were such, does that account for his cruelty? Perhaps he couldn't love her, but he could be kind—and yet all Sansa's known are his harsh words and harsher touch, and she's not sure which wounds will last the longest, only that so far none have healed.

"I'm not sure, only that it's certainly not _my_ company he prefers." She dabs at her eyes with Olenna's kerchief, embarrassed at her inability to stop the flow of her tears. "I had thought that perhaps with a child, that…"

That _what?_ That Joffrey would change? But no, he never would—deep down she knows it to be true, but she doesn't want a child for his sake, _not anymore_. For as long as she could remember, ever since she'd helped her mother birth her youngest brother Rickon into the world, Sansa had wanted a child of her very own—a family of her own. Now, it seemed that dream was just as fleeting.

"It doesn't matter, as I can't seem to conceive anyway." She shakes her head, irritated at her own hopelessness. "I'm terribly sorry for burdening you with—"

"Nonsense." Margaery squeezes her hand so tightly, Sansa wonders that she's even got any feeling left in her fingers. "You must never be afraid to share anything with me." Her grip eases as she reaches to cup Sansa's cheek. Her hand feels cool as she swipes her thumb over Sansa's tears. "We are sisters, you and I, and we are going to fix this."

Sansa releases a shuddering breath, afraid to hope, but her curiosity does not allow her to let go so easily when Margaery and Olenna share a pointed look, and she croaks out, "How?"

"You know, it is quite possible that your inability to conceive has nothing to do with you at all," Olenna states, very matter-of-factly.

A slow smile spreads across her face, as if just struck with a brilliant idea, and Margaery chirps, "Grandmother, did you know that today was the first time Sansa has ever seen Gladiators in the arena?"

"An interesting development." Olenna taps her jeweled finger against her goblet. It makes a distinct _clang_ sound—like that of chains scraping against iron bars. "Sansa my dear, did you know that Gladiators are celebrated for their virility in both the arena _and_ the bedchamber?"

Sansa shakes her head, unsure why it's even relevant to their current conversation. Of course this isn't something she'd known.

"Oh yes," Margaery chimes in enthusiastically. "Rumor has it that even a Gladiator's sweat is a most potent aphrodisiac."

Sansa swallows nervously, unsure what they're about, as Olenna once again picks up the reigns. "You know, we've even been known to arrange a… How shall I say? a _discreet_ rendezvous from time to time—with certain noblewomen _and_ even men."

"Oh?" _Oh!_ Finally the realization hits her, and Sansa flushes straight to her toes. She shakes her head vehemently. "No, I—I couldn't possibly! I could never do something like that!"

"And just why the hell not?" Margaery retorts just as quickly.

"Because I am a married woman—"

"Yes, yes—with a cunt husband who is just as useless at putting a babe in you as he is at making you peak." Olenna waves her hand dismissively, rolling her eyes heavenwards again as she japes to her granddaughter, "Evidently, the poor girl could certainly use it."

"Peak?" Sansa echoes, feeling foolish as they laugh at her plight, and she's certain that the redness of her hair and her face is indiscernible now.

Margaery leans forward and chucks Sansa under her chin. "Oh dear sister…" She smiles her most charming of smiles. "Coupling isn't just to make a babe. If done right, it _should_ feel good for you—you know—" She gestures to the place between her thighs with one of her signature saucy winks.

"But what if Joffrey were to find out?" Sansa cannot believe her ears even as the words tumble from her _own_ mouth. Shamefully, she thinks of Jon, and the curious pang hits her gut once more—that sweet coiling heat.

"He won't." Margaery assures her, slipping her wine goblet back into Sansa's trembling fingers and encouraging her to take a sip. "Not even the Gladiator will recognize you, I assure you. Just trust in me, won't you?"

Sansa curls her fingers around the goblet, brings it to her lips and drains its contents. Her heart hammers wildly in her breast. Could she do this? Take a lover that was not her husband? Go against the very core of everything she'd been raised to believe? _Family. Duty. Honor._

Olenna and Margaery are watching her expectantly, their eyes twinkling as if they held the worlds' secrets within the orbs of their irises. With a resigned sigh, Sansa places her goblet back on the table with a shaky hand, and she nods her head _yes_.

* * *

Jon sits quietly atop his bunk. The slap of naked skin and cries of ecstasy echo down the corridor and bounce off the walls of his cell. The Ludus is a den of sin tonight—a gift from Dominus and Domina, for his victory in the arena today. But Jon does not partake.

His thumb and forefinger lightly trace the intricate embroidery of roses and what he believes to be direwolves on the slip of silk _still_ clutched in his hands. He brings it to his face to smell—the scent of _her_. The faintest hint of rose petals tease his nostrils, the tang of citrus—lemons, maybe? He doesn't even know her name, but Jon has been able to think of little else _but_ her.

"You going to just sit here and brood like some cockless eunuch while we drink your wine and fuck your women?" Tormund, already deep in his cups, calls from the doorway. His face is as red as his bushy beard and even bushier eyebrows.

Jon shrugs, as uninterested in the temptation of the flesh now as he's ever been. "Just be sure to enjoy my share. You fought hard today, my friend." He smiles at his companion as Tormund stumbles through the door and flops unceremoniously upon the bunk beside him.

Tormund smiles back, wincing slightly as his skin pulls tight over his swollen, blackened eye and the fresh gash on his forehead.

"Aye, damn right I did." He nods emphatically. "I always do, but you— _you_ , our _Champion of High Garden_ , got them all thinking you're some kind of a god."

"I'm not a god." Jon shakes his head, his top lip twitching slightly at the silly implication.

Tormund's expression is of the utmost seriousness as he leans in closer, his breath heavily tinged with the spirits he's partaken in. "I know. I've seen your pecker."

He laughs then, his riotous guffaws rivaling the symphony of sex raging on just beyond the doorway, and slaps Jon hard on the back in a show of brotherly affection. "Drink," he bellows, and thrusts his cup insistently at Jon's unwilling hand, the wine sloshing against the wooden rim.

Jon grunts in his frustration at his friend's drunken antics, and jerks the palla back just in time to save it from being soiled by the wine that spills in his lap.

Tormund is suddenly serious again. "What's that?" he asks, eyeing the fine silk in Jon's hands like it's the deadliest of venomous snakes.

"A gift." Jon tries to sound nonchalant He rolls his shoulders casually under Tormund's scrutiny, but the giant ginger is no fool—even in his inebriated state.

"A gift? From the noblewoman in the pits?" He shakes his head and levels Jon with a look as sharp as any blow to the gut. "Going to wrap it 'round your cock and fuck it, when there's a plethora of warm willing flesh writhing just around the corner?" Another shake of his head. "You're a damn fool, Jon, put her out of your mind. She's the Domina's sister and trouble, no doubt."

Jon's eyes blow wide at that, and he's unable to mask his shock. "Domina's sister?"

"Yes, heard her being introduced to Doctore, making plans to visit here for the summer. Saw her save your pretty arse from that guard, too. Care to test your skills in the arena with no hands?" Tormund snorts into his cup. "Fucking _idiot_."

"Get fucked." Jon shoves him playfully off his bunk, and Tormund falls dramatically to the floor, throwing up his middle and index fingers in _missio_ —the sign of surrender in the arena.

"Don't mind if I do." He waggles his bushy red eyebrows as he drags himself to his feet and stumbles from the cell. "Don't wait up."

Jon shakes his head as he watches his friend disappear 'round the corner. Tormund was right, he was mad for touching her. If not for her quick thinking—and for Domina's sharp tongue—Jon might be one hand short right now, grabbing a nobleman's wife. At first he'd only meant to frighten her—another highborn bitch come to stare at him in fascination and revulsion.

But, _by the gods_ , she smelled so sweet, felt so soft—so damnably good with her breathy sighs spilling from those dewy lips and… _Seven save him_ , he wanted her. Wanted to do all the filthy things he'd whispered as he tasted the delectable flesh of her ear: hear her cry his name in the throes of passion, as he supped on her cunt and worshiped her body until she peaked over and over again in his arms.

He thumbs the silky material, hating himself for the lustful thoughts he cannot seem to contain, yet would never be permitted to act upon. Hates that another man gets to touch her, _hold_ her… a man that does _not_ deserve her if he would dare put his hands upon her in anger. Hates the feeling of helplessness that he cannot protect her—the helplessness he'd felt when he saw the ugly bruises that marred the perfection of her wrist, hates the rage that had torn at his insides that someone had hurt her.

Such a delicate thing.

And he hates her too, the flame-haired beauty who beguiles him so.

He runs his fingers along the palla's embroidery again, as if to memorize its fine stitches.

 _He doesn't even know her name._

* * *

Sansa inhales the sweet scent of the rose petals that float atop the steamy water of the heated baths, as Margaery's personal body servants rub perfumed oils into her skin. She tries to let the warm water and gentle ministrations soothe her frayed nerves, but even the wine has ceased to do that now—despite the copious amounts she's consumed.

What had _ever_ possessed her to agree to this? To take a strange man into her bed—a Gladiator? What if after this entire affair she were to find out that her inability to conceive did in fact lie with her, and not Joffrey, and that she'd disgraced the sanctity of her marriage all for naught?

"I know what you're doing," Margaery chides as she breezes into the baths, her blue stola billowing around her as she whirls on Sansa. Her hands are full of what appears to be golden jewelry, and it jingles softly as she walks. "Don't."

"What am I— _oh_ —" Sansa stops mid-sentence, breath hitched on a surprised gasp, eyes blown wide, as one of the servants shoves an oiled hand between her thighs to perfume the damp dusting of auburn curls there "—doing?" she squeaks.

"Trying to talk yourself out of this, and I simply won't allow it. Besides…" Margaery's smile turns positively wicked as she holds out the jewelry in her hand—which is _not_ , as it turns out, jewelry at all, but a belt of charms dangling with links of gold and a wisp of fabric for a skirt—a loin cloth, really—in the lightest shade of blue. She shakes her wrists and gives it a little _jingle_. "I've already picked out your evening attire."

Sansa gapes. "I'm not sure _what_ that—that _thing_ is, but evening attire, it is _not_."

"Well, what did you think? I'd truss you up in yards of silk?" Margaery clicks her tongue as the servants guide Sansa up the steps of the bath and blot her skin dry with strips of linen, then wrap it securely around her to conceal her nakedness. "If I had my way, you'd wear nothing at all, but I didn't want to disrupt your delicate sensibilities. Not immediately, anyway."

"Not immediately?" Sansa quirks a brow.

"You want a babe, don't you? It may take more than one time, Sansa. You do realize that?"

Sansa can only nod her head.

"Then come, sister." Giddily, Margaery tugs her out of the baths and down the corridor back towards her chambers.

Sansa follows behind on shaky legs, having been plied with goblet after goblet of wine all afternoon. At this point she's unsure if it's her nerves or the wine that makes her wobbly, as Margaery suddenly stops short before a large locked wardrobe, and fishes a gilded key from her pocket.

A turn of the key, a click of the lock, and the cabinet door creaks open to reveal several rows of masks. Some are adorned with sparkling gems, others simple—bronzed and golden, ivory and jade—each one more beautiful than the last, and every one of them a unique work of art.

"What are they?" Curiously, Sansa reaches for the most simplistic one—a smooth porcelain finish with blue ribbons to tie it in place. She marvels at its elegance, turning it gently in her hands.

"Grandmother's old orgy masks." Margaery stifles a giggle at Sansa's sudden distressed look, and pulls the golden one down. "I promised you a disguise, and you shall have one."

"And what of my hair?" It wasn't as if she couldn't easily be picked out of a crowd, with her inherited Tully-red tresses.

Margaery heaves a sigh and shoves the golden mask into Sansa's hands so she can close and lock the wardrobe back up. "Of course I thought of that, too, silly girl. Do you take me for an amateur?"

Sansa decides it's a rhetorical question—fortunately too, because what does one even say to that? The entire situation seems absurdly hilarious, except she's far too nervous to laugh, and thinks she might even weep instead. Or maybe vomit.

But there's no time for any of that, as Margaery tucks the key away and divests Sansa of both masks before twirling her around and giving her a gentle slap on the arse. "Now, to get you ready!"

* * *

 _Crack._ The wooden sparring sword shatters to splinters as Jon swings it with the force of the frustration he feels. For the heat of the waning day and the sun beating unmercifully down upon his back. For the dryness of his throat and a ragged thirst left unquenched. For a sleepless night and a restless cock. His patience is wasted.

"Dammit, Jon!" Tormund growls, wringing his hand where he'd taken the brunt of Jon's swing. "The hell's gotten into you?"

"Aye, this is practice, you aren't in the arena," Davos agrees. Hands on his hips, he kicks the now useless pile of tinder off to the side. "Focus, Jon Take a minute if you need it."

"I don't need a minute," Jon snaps, chest heaving with exertion and his irritation over his inability to do just _that_ —to _focus_.

He hadn't seen Tormund or kept track of his own steps—he'd seen only a flash of red, over and over again; he hadn't felt his own sweat running down his back—only the warm burst of citrus breath on his cheek; he hadn't been able to concentrate on the stab and parry of the wooden sword in his hand—only the smooth expanse of pale skin, the silky current of her palla between his forefinger and thumb…

He catches himself and immediately averts his gaze. "Apologies, Doctore." But he isn't sorry. Not in the least.

Davos jerks his head towards the water barrels and repeats himself: "A minute." It's not a request.

Pissed, Jon kicks the dirt and tosses his wooden shield to the ground. He mutters a string of curses under his breath as he stomps off like a petulant child, knowing full well his outburst can bring the bite of Doctore's whip, if he's so inclined. But Jon doesn't care.

"Hmm. Someone needs a time-out."

Jon cringes as Domina's voice cuts through the grunts and smacks of wood against wood, and skirts up his spine like the whip he has already decided he would gladly take if only it meant distracting him from himself.

"Just a bit too much sun, Domina," Davos is quick to excuse his insolent behavior, and even quicker to offer his help. "What can we do for you?"

Jon watches her warily from the peripheral of his vision, as he dips his cup and attempts to sate his blistering thirst. There is only ever _one_ reason for Domina to venture down into the Ludus, and his skin crawls with a practiced unease at the thought of it.

He knows he's alone in his reservations. Most, if not all, of his comrades are quick to jump at the chance to spend a few hours in the Villa—to rub elbows with the nobles, to drink their wine, eat their food, and to fuck another man's wife.

Jon is not a whore, and thusly, has no desire to be treated as one. Unfortunately, the feelings of a mere slave aren't something the nobles care enough to consider. He is still just someone's piece of property—a fact that a million damn victories in the arena will _never_ change.

"Jon," Doctore summons him, and he gnashes his teeth as he drops his cup back to the barrel. When he turns to address his betters, it is with the humble resignation required of him.

And it is with that same resignation that Jon obediently follows Domina back to the Villa, where he is stripped naked of both his clothing and what little remains of his dignity. Bathed and shaved, he stands perfectly still, detaching his mind, as servant girls slather his naked body with golden paint, then hide his face behind a gilded mask.

The preparation is nothing new, nothing he hasn't learned to expect. He feels nothing during, or when he's led to the curtain that separates him from whatever noblewoman has paid for his time and his cock behind her husband's back. He will not know her name nor her face—he never does, nor does he wish to—and she will not know his.

He is nothing to these women—Jon reminds himself as the curtain is drawn back, and another masked stranger is revealed to him—and they are nothing to him.

She will be no different.

Jon struts to her naked and unashamed, his cock twitching because despite the fact that he hates this—hates that his body is not his own, detests being used like no more than a rutting stud, a filthy whore—he's only human, and her body is long and lithe, her breasts full and firm, tapering into the dips and hollows of a smooth flat stomach. The gold of the belt that encases the gentle curve of her tiny waist glimmers in the candlelight, the charms jingling when she moves.

But her hair is pale—flaxen like her porcelain skin, not red like the fire flickering against the marbled walls. Not the living flame he sees when he closes his eyes and wishes he could run his fingers through fire like spun silk.

But _no_ —Jon shakes the image, his desires, his dreams; he won't disgrace her, nor taint his memory by pretending she is here when she is not.

Intent to be done with this charade, Jon moves with a purpose, quickly erasing the distance that separates them. The faceless noblewoman sits up as he approaches the bed, her hair falling to cover her breasts, and he reaches to push it back over her shoulder. She trembles beneath his touch, as he drifts his fingers across the dusty peaks of her nipples, revealed.

Curiously, she does not touch him, doesn't grasp or marvel at his biceps, nor scrape her nails down his stomach. But Jon doesn't ponder long, wishes not to dally in her company any longer than necessary. If she prefers to lay unmoving beneath him, it only makes his task all the easier.

Jon strokes the length of his cock, ensuring that he's ready to take her. Her blue eyes flash behind the ivory mask, watching him, her body going rigid when he grabs her by the ankles and jerks her down the length of the bed, attempting to part her thighs.

He's not sure what she's about, but if he takes her from behind, it will be over all the more quickly; so he reaches for her hips, muscles bunching, and flips her onto her stomach in one swift, abrupt move, her belt jangling. Her answer is an audible gasp, as he drags his hands down the backs of her thighs, then back up again to grasp her tiny waist and pull her up onto her knees.

She gasps again, a strangled sound, as she pulls away from him, attempting to crawl her way back up the bed. His hands hold her steady. His fingers bite into her tender flesh, and his cock nudges against the rounded curves of her arse.

Her head jerks, and she cries out—not in pleasure or even a delighted anticipation, he thinks, but in pain when he's hardly touched her—as though she expects to be hurt. Unsure how he's meant to proceed— _what should he say, what should he do?_ —his grip on her slackens. She takes the opportunity he offers, scrambling to flip back around. In her haste, the folds of her little skirt flip up when she finally wrestles herself free, and manages to swing herself around.

Jon sits back on his knees, startled and evermore uncertain. His gaze is fixed on this woman—she has paid for him to fuck her, and now she struggles to escape him. Her skirt flutters again, divesting her of this final shred of modesty, and Jon's eyes are drawn to the movement of the quivering silk.

Below the wisps of barely-there blue, a patch of auburn curls peep out at him from between her creamy thighs. He blinks, sure that it's only his imagination overcoming him again, despite his efforts and better judgment. He had told himself not to pretend… _It cannot be…_

She's panting now, skittish when his hand comes up to catch her wrist—because he _must_ know.

Jon can feel her pulse skipping wildly beneath his fingertips, his own thumping in a heady response as he gently turns over her wrist. The purple bruises stare back at him—mottled and ugly on the perfect canvas of her ivory skin, and Jon feels suddenly as if all the air has been pushed from his lungs, as if he'd been bested in the arena and he is at the mercy of his opponent—as if he might _never_ breathe again.

"Princess?" A plea of mercy, he calls her by the only name he knows.

She shudders, caressed by his words as assuredly as he's begun to caress her wrist. "Jon?"

He groans at the sound of his name on her trembling lips—sweeter than her scent, than his fantasies of her—and he vows he will hear it spill from her mouth in breathy moans… over and over again, before this night is through.


	3. Chapter 3

**Girl, I'm Not With It, I'm Way Too Far Gone**

 _Girl, I'm not with it, I'm way too far gone…_

I'm not ready, eyes heavy now

Heart on your sleeve, like you've never been loved…

Running in circles, now look what you've done

— Friends, Chase Atlantic

* * *

There's a humming in his ears, a ragged staccato that beats away deep in his breast, beneath the layers of gold paint and corded muscles, where he feels a painful stab of fear stir in his gut. The air seems thin—suffocating, almost—as it rushes back to Jon's lungs on a current of soft rose petals and the sharp tang of citrus. _Lemons_ , he thinks.

In that first moment—that first, blissfully sweet moment that seemed to answer all of his unuttered prayers—Jon had known what to do. He'd known how he would take her, how he would make her come, how he would show her what she'd done to him and what he could do to her in return.

But now… Now, reality is crashing down upon that sweet bliss, and reality has never been kind to him.

He'd heard the gentle cadence of her voice, seen the purple bruises that marred the delicate underside of her wrist, as surely as he was drowning in the two blue pools of her eyes right now, and yet—

 _It can't be her._

Jon ceases the gentle ministrations of his thumb on her wrist. He hates how his hand shakes—how he trembles with the fear that any moment this illusion could shatter, that behind that mask she is just another faceless noblewoman. But the fear still claws at his insides with gnarled fingers, as Jon slowly reaches behind her head and releases the ties that conceal her true identity from him.

Her breath hitches—the softest of sounds, as her porcelain mask slips to her lap, the flaxen wig falling with it. Auburn hair tumbles free—a waterfall of glorious flame that cascades down her naked back and shoulders, and Jon's fingers twitch as her unbound tresses sweep against the burnished gold of her jeweled belt.

If she'd sprung straight from the frothy foams of the sea as the goddess Venus had before her, Jon thinks there has never been a creature so lovely: a beauty so pure, so unblemished, that would rival her—his princess. He would put her on a pedestal, prostrate himself at her feet and worship her with reverence—if only she'd let him.

Her bottom lip quivers, wary blue eyes catching in the flickering torchlight, as she tracks the movement of his still-trembling hand that brushes softly against the curve of her jaw. Jon's gut clenches in grief that she would fear him—that she would be predisposed to fear a man's touch—and that grief turns riotously to anger at the man who put such a fear into her eyes.

The urge to wrap his hands 'round the bastard's throat and slowly choke the life from him slams into Jon's chest with an ardent force. But more than that, he wishes to erase that look from her eyes forever… wishes to see her body quiver with only pleasure—and he knows most assuredly that he has no intention of leaving her bed tonight, until he's done just that.

He pushes his hand into the lush waves of her hair, dragging his fingers through the flames like spun silk, as he'd thought about _over and over and over again_ , until it had nearly driven him to madness. The scent of citrus assaults his senses, and he groans his satisfaction into the space between them when she leans—just the slightest bit—into his touch. He'll take what he can get, _for now_.

Hesitantly, she raises her hand—arm outstretched, reaching to divest him of his mask. It hits the mattress with a muffled _thud_ , dropping to the bed somewhere behind him. No more gilded masks. No more iron bars. No more barriers. No more titles, or classes or odds stacked against them. They are woman and man. Naked and breathless. Unashamed and wanting. And _oh_ , how he wants her…

Her fingers hover at his jaw, tracing the lightest of touches against the coarseness of his beard—hesitant, barely there, but all the same the realest thing Jon's ever felt. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation; it's like a dream, but his body hums with wakefulness, the hairs at the nape of his neck stand to attention—all of him so aware of all of her.

When her hand falters, Jon's eyes snap open and he catches her wrist before she can pull away. His fingers wrap easily around it, broad and strong to her slim and fragile, so easily broken… but Jon would never hurt her. Could never dream of such a thing. Cannot even imagine how another man ever could.

Jon's touch upon her—another man's wife, but _his_ princess, _his_ woman—is firm but so, devastatingly gentle. _I won't hurt you._ His gaze implores her to believe him, and it does not waver when his mouth meets her skin, her bruises—for she deserves more than the man who'd given those to her. _No_ , Jon thinks as he opens his mouth against her pulse, what she deserves is all that he will give to her tonight… and all those nights that will follow, should she wish it.

His lips work furiously, hungrily at her bruises, as if he means to kiss them away. Her eyes darken as they stay transfixed upon his, and Jon can feel her pulse beat wildly against his tongue. He laps at her skin—sweet and sweat and citrus—like a man starved, like a man who might never find salvation once she takes her leave of him.

 _I don't want her to leave._

Jon kisses her harder, mouth opening wider, tongue flattening against the hellish marks on her heavenly flesh and _licking_ , as a low groan rumbles from deep within his chest. His grip tightens upon her hand, their fingers scrambling to intertwine as he tilts his head to change the angle, to cover every inch of her hurts with his hot, panting breath—as if he could soothe them into oblivion with nothing but the way that he wants her.

And all the while, as his mouth ravishes her skin, his gaze does not break from hers—it does not falter.

Her lashes flutter, sweeping against her flushed cheeks, and her lips part. She wets them with her tongue as a soft sigh pushes past them. Jon's cock twitches almost painfully in response, his urge to bury himself within her unyielding softness—to swallow every cry that falls unbidden from her sweet lips—is a fire that rages within him that refuses to be tempered.

But temper it, he will, as he seeks only to please her. To worship and revere, as he'd whispered in hot breaths against her ear, when the bars separating them had kept him from making good on his desires. Now, nothing stands between them—her body a boundless treasure that he yearns to indulge in, if only he knew where to put his hands and mouth first. Whatever the reason, the gods had seen fit to answer his fervent prayers, and Jon does not intend to squander one single moment of their divine mercy.

Because he cannot bear to untangle their clasped hands, Jon reaches with his other to thumb the delicate lines of her lips. How many times he'd thought about kissing them—how soft they would be, how warm and supple when they yield beneath his own. Her breath is hot—bursts of citrus against his wrist, as he traces her lips, imagining them swollen and panting from his kisses.

"I want to kiss you, princess." Jon supposes it suffices as a request for permission as he leans in closer, until their breath mingles in what little space remains between them.

He pauses, gaze unwavering to gauge her reaction—flickering between the sapphire of her eyes and the sweet swell of her ruby lips, as she sucks her bottom one between her teeth and nervously bobs her head. Jon's groan of victory is muffled as his mouth descends upon hers, his hands cupping her face, imparting his feelings as if he had spoken them: _My darling, my princess, trust in me, I would never hurt you._

With earnest determination, Jon coaxes her lips apart to slip his tongue between them, to taste the warm recesses of her mouth—tart and tangy and sweet, as the hint of wine that still lingers there. Heady and intoxicating—more so than he'd even imagined—he drinks from her mouth, his head spinning, senses reeling when she strokes her tongue curiously against his.

Her breathy moan spills forth into his open mouth, and Jon groans his satisfaction as he catches it with his tongue and pushes it back into her own—slanting his lips to deepen the kiss. She rocks against him, and the taut peaks of her nipples brush against his naked chest, dusting them with gold. The motion sends a jolt of desire shuddering through him with such a force that Jon has no choice but to break the kiss just to catch his breath.

She chases his lips, her body melting into the hard planes of his chest. When her eyes flutter open, they are hazy and subdued, her pupils dilated, under hooded lashes that sweep gently against the blush of her cheeks.

Chest heaving, he slides his hands down her throat, his gaze fixed on her pulse throbbing there. Jon ducks his head, lips chasing his hands—his beard scraping, mouth tasting, sucking, nipping at her delicate ivory flesh. She smells as good as she tastes—tastes _better_ —than any fantasy he could have conjured in his lonely bunk, with her palla twisted in his grasp.

"Remember what I said to you, princess?" The hot breath on his tongue teases the delicate shape of her ear. "That I would worship your body with my mouth?"

He sucks her lobe between his lips and drags his teeth against it. "Is that what you want?"

She's panting—ragged breath ghosting across the back of his neck where she burrows her face, and his skin comes alive, prickling beneath her touch.

"Say it," Jon growls, his tongue flicking at the sensitive spot of skin just behind her ear. His hands slide 'round her tiny frame, skimming down her back to cup the fullness of her arse—it fits perfectly in his palms, as though she were made for he and he alone—and settles her more firmly against him. "Tell me you want me to make you mine."

 _"Yes,"_ she whimpers, head nodding emphatically against him.

"You can do better than that, princess." Jon kneads her sweet flesh, flexes his hips forward so she can feel his cock press hard and hot into the softness of her belly, lest she doubt how much he want her—nay, _yearn_ for her. _His princess._

"Say it," he demands again. Because Jon doesn't want her compliance; Jon wants her response. Wants her clinging to him in passion, writhing beneath him and calling his name. _Only_ his name—all her breathy moans and soft sighs, her pleasure and the way that she wants him—all for him—only him, and no one else.

 _Mine._ His beard rasps against her skin, his mouth sucking blooms into the hollow of her throat where her pulse thuds wildly. _Mine,_ he thinks again, as it ticks rapidly beneath his tongue when he marks her like he has no business doing—but he does so anyway. _Mine,_ as he inhales the tangy citrus scent of her skin.

 _No one will touch her—mark her skin ever again, but me. She's mine. All mine._

"Yes, Jon," she sobs into his shoulder, and her perfect little nails dig crescent moons into his skin as she marks him, too. _Hers._ "I want to be yours! Make me yours!"

"Aye." A low growl rumbles up from deep within his chest, as Jon tilts her head back to gaze into her eyes—a tempestuous sea of blue peep out from half-hooded lids, long lashes fanning her cheeks, rose-gold from the paint on his body that smears her now too.

"I'll make you mine, princess." Jon brushes his lips against hers, nuzzles their noses. "That fancy husband of yours won't _ever_ be able to make you feel the way I do… I'll make you forget all about him."

He doesn't wait for her to answer—cannot bear it if she would deny him. Instead, he ducks his head once more to tattoo kisses across her collarbone, dipping down between the valley of her breasts to bury his face in their lush softness.

Jon holds her close, one hand sliding up the smooth expanse of her stomach to cup the soft swell of her breast, while his mouth plucks at one pert nipple. It tightens as he curls his lips around it, alternating between teeth and tongue, and delighting at all the little grunts and gasps he evokes.

He lowers her gently down upon the bed, fanning her hair out around her like a fiery curtain. She looks ethereal. The torchlight bathes her in a soft shimmering glow, the streaks of glittering gold across her pale, naked body, that had painted his skin but grace hers now as well—evidence that he's touched her, proof that she'd let him, a song of skin-upon-skin, of his body pressed against hers. Like his golden Venus sprung from the sea, he's come to pay tribute, to worship her lithe body, as only a goddess deserves.

 _Mine._ His fingers sweep down her throat. _She's mine._

"Remember what else I said to you, princess?" Jon's voice is a husky cross between a growl and a moan as he drags his hand down between her breasts, his fingers digging possessively in her supple flesh. _Mine._

She quivers beneath his touch, her stomach muscles clenching, her chest heaving. He cups her breasts and she arches into his hands. _All mine._

"Said I'd tear those pretty silks from you with my teeth, worship your soft body with my mouth… my tongue…" Jon dips to lap where his hands had been, flattening his tongue to sweep across her flushed golden skin. _Mine._

She writhes beneath him as he continues his sensual assault, her skin smooth as silk beneath his calloused palms, and he reminds her, "Said I'd get my face between your legs—in your pretty little cunt."

Her soft cry rings out in response, bouncing off the marble walls and echoes in his ears—the most beautiful sound he's ever heard, and all for him.

 _Not_ her husband's— _never_ his. Her passion is for Jon and Jon alone.

"Next time—" because there _will be_ a next time; Jon couldn't survive if there wasn't "— you wear one of those pretty dresses he bought for you, to truss you up and parade you around as the perfect picture of his perfect wife, and I'll tear it from you with my teeth like I promised. I'll rip it to shreds. Because you're not his perfect little wife—not when you're with me."

 _You are not his._

"When you're with me, you're only _my_ princess— _my_ beautiful woman. Your lips are mine to taste, your body is mine to touch." His voice is hoarse with his vehement declaration. "Only mine."

 _You belong to me._

"I want to taste your sweet lips right now. Will you let me?" Jon's mouth twitches smugly in a smirk as she pulls herself up on her elbows, eager to comply. He stays her, palm spreading flat over her riotous heart.

"Not those lips, princess," he chuckles softly when he reaches his other hand past the wisp of blue silk between her thighs, to brush his fingers across the patch of auburn curls that guard her cunt—already damp from her want. "These lips right here."

Jon's smile only broadens as she gasps and her hips thrust upwards into his palm, chasing his hand as he ghosts his fingers lightly over her mound again. She bites at her bottom lip, tugging it between her teeth to keep from crying out. Such an innocent gesture—yet it provokes all manner of wicked thoughts in his addled brain as his weeping cock jerks up at his stomach in response.

He presses between her soft folds, inserts his finger deep within her moist heat, and whatever Jon had intended to say dissolves to incoherent rambling on his tongue. She's tight— _so fucking tight and hot_ —and her muscles suck greedily at his seeking finger, as his thumb finds and sweeps against the core of her desire.

"You feel so good," Jon grounds between clenched teeth, as his finger pumps away at her cunt.

"Do you like when I fuck you with my fingers, princess?" he asks, and smiles when he works another finger within, when her eyes blow wide as he curls them inside her and thrusts faster.

She whimpers in reply, her hips rocking with his steady rhythm, and he revels in the way her head lolls against the pillows, her red hair thrashing about like a halo of fire, as her body shudders around his hand.

Jon salivates—a starving man who wants to taste her. He pulls his fingers free abruptly, coated in her arousal, and her eyes snap open at the loss of sensation.

His gaze locks on hers, darkened by his attentions, as he slips his fingers past his lips to get his first taste of her—tangy like her mouth had been, as if she'd been bathed in the nectar of the gods, and yet sweeter, hotter, more sinful than even the most decadent temptation the gods could have ever created.

The taste makes him groan, makes him want to do nothing more than to bury his face in her curls and sup on her cunt like it's his last meal—and Jon would gladly trade his own life for a night spent between her thighs.

He sucks his fingers clean, watching all the while as her blue eyes drown in a pool of black, as her pale skin blooms pink, as her own lips part and she pants, pants, _pants,_ making Jon's gaze drop to her mouth from which such sweet breaths fall, and he wants to catch and swallow every last one.

 _"Mmmm…"_ Jon's groan is deep—a low rumbling ache that vibrates up his chest and spills out past his fingers.

"Would you like a taste, my sweet princess?" He does not wait for her answer. Instead, Jon slips his fingers—slick now from his laving tongue—back between her parted thighs.

His breath hitches with hers at the way her walls clench around him, suck him deeper, quivering with the way she wants him inside her. He yearns to be, to take her now, hot and hard—with fingers, tongue, and cock—every inch of him covering every inch of her, in reckless abandon until they lay spent, gasping for breath, in each other's arms.

But no— _no._ Jon palms his cock in an attempt to stem his desire. _Slowly._ He must take her slowly this first time. Savor every breath, every moan, every longing look and sigh, as her body awakens beneath his touch—so that she'll never desire another but him.

Perspiration breaks on his brow as Jon withdraws his fingers, dripping again with her slick heat, and presses them to her dewy lips. "Taste," he urges, coaxing them into her mouth—as equally hot and wet as her cunt.

Her eyes blink innocently up at him as she acquiesces to his demand. Her perfect little tongue swirling 'round his fingers—around and between—sucking down past his knuckles and to the base, like she's a practiced seductress.

Jon shivers as his cock jumps violently in regard to her attentions. "Enough," he growls, eager to replace his fingers with his jealous, covetous mouth.

She sighs contently when their lips meet again, and Jon thinks the sound is nearly as lovely as she, as he curls his tongue around hers, sucking it into his mouth. The tangy taste of her cunt in her mouth—on her own tongue—is a heady, intoxicating elixir that wreaks havoc on what little self-control he likes to think he has left.

"Want me to get my tongue in you, princess?" he murmurs against her lips, where her musk still lingers with the citrus scent of her breath.

She doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. Jon's already sliding down the length of her body, his hands and mouth intent on mapping out every inch of her delectable flesh—to memorize every dip, every hollow, every crevice—to stake his claim and erase any doubt that she was ever intended for anyone other than him. Her husband be damned—she is _his,_ and he'd die before letting anyone hurt her again.

 _"Mine,"_ Jon growls against her skin, his palms sweeping down her sides as his mouth tracks a fiery path down her throat, between her breasts—this possessive need that clenches deep in his gut driving him. Teeth nipping, beard scratching—marking her as he goes.

His tongue traces a lazy circle 'round her navel, dipping for a taste as her curious hands ghost across his shoulders, little crescent moons grazing his skin. Her touch soothes yet inflames him—consuming him all the same.

Jon pulls her legs apart, settling between her soft thighs, his breath billowing against the little wisp of blue silk—all that stands between his eager mouth and the sweet taste of her hot cunt. His hunger for her is palpable—a living, breathing thing that claws his insides with a deep gnawing ache that demands to be satiated.

But it's more than that—more than just his hunger, more than just his driving need for her. It's _her_ —her need, her pleasure. Jon seeks only to please her, to make her crave him as he craves her—to haunt her thoughts, as she does his—to hear the cadence of his name spill from her soft parted lips, swollen and bruised from his kisses.

He wants her, almost painfully so—he's never known a want like this, so possessive and all-consuming. He wants to make her his, not by force or driven by his own desires, but by the pleasure he can give to her. Such a beautiful thing, his princess is… she should be cherished, worshipped, well-loved. He wants to make her want him, because she deserves to have her cravings satisfied—and _no one,_ Jon thinks, can give to her what he can.

 _And no one else will._

"Tell me what you want, princess." Jon nuzzles his beard against her inner thighs; its coarseness scratches at her ivory skin, and his tongue chases it to soothe.

He pulls a guttural moan from deep within her, as she bucks her hips upwards off the bed. A silent plea, he knows what she wants, but Jon would have her say it—hear it from her pretty mouth.

His fist curls in the wisp of blue silk, its delicate stitching easily rending from the chain of gold 'round her waist. It flutters somewhere on the bed, but Jon does not know where it finds its final resting place. He cares for nothing else but the tight little auburn curls that grace his hungry gaze, and the woman who lays panting above him.

He nudges his nose against her folds, inhales her intoxicating musk—the tangy sweetness beckoning him to come taste. _Oh,_ how he wants to—

"Do you want my mouth here, on your cunt, princess?" Jon demands to know. "Just like I promised you—" he flattens his tongue and licks up her slit, groaning at the way she tastes, the way she gasps, the way her hips lift to chase his lips as he pulls away—however maddening for him to do so.

"Tell me." The order is a feral one that rips from his throat. He is impatient to sup at her cunt, to taste the way she wants him on his tongue—commit it forever to his memory—the sweet, sweet nectar of his flame-haired goddess. _Mine…_

"Please…" She twists beneath him, hair mussed up, eyes screwed shut and her delicate little jaw clenched—yet Jon persists, intent on her full surrender.

"Oh yes, I will please you, my sweet girl." He nips lightly at her thigh, fingers digging in her creamy skin. "You've only to say it, princess." Jon's hot breath caresses her mound, his lips so close he can almost taste her—his cock so hard it borders on painful, and he groans again. "Tell me you want me to fuck you with my tongue."

"Yes!" she relents, her surrender an animalistic sound that vibrates down the length of her body and into his. A stuttering "Please—" chest heaving with her pant pant _panting_ "—I want you to—to—" Jon clamps his mouth onto her thigh and sucks, _hard,_ to help her along, and her long, high moan breaks off into a gasp "— _fuck me with your tongue,_ Jon, I want you to!"

"Yes, love," Jon growls his sweet victory into her hot, wet cunt—groaning as he buries himself within her very essence. Somehow, he knows that he is the only man who has ever been here—the only man she's ever given herself completely over to in this way. It clenches at his heart as it sings in his veins—his want for her, his all-encompassing need. He will claim her, he will love her, he will make her his woman in every way…

 _She is mine, and I am hers._

His tongue finds her center, swirls a lazy circle 'round her clit, as she fists the silky sheets beneath them. Her body sings like the tempered steel he swings in the arena—hips arching, pushing, seeking his eager mouth as he laps at her sweet core.

"Gods, princess, you taste so fucking good," Jon groans into her soft heat and her cunt clenches—pulsing like the staccato of his ragged heartbeat that thuds away in his ears when her thighs clamp down around him.

She answers—her cry, a broken litany of his name that spills forth from her parted lips, as her hands scramble for purchase in his thick black curls.

"Go on, princess—" Jon moans into her cunt, his fingers dig into her thighs "—pull it, love, use me." _Please touch me._

As if hypnotized to follow his every whim, her fingers twist into his hair and tug along with every swipe of his tongue, every caress of his hands, every possessive growl into her gently thrusting cunt. When his tongue slips up to lave attention upon her clit again, she yanks hard at his curls, pulling his face into the apex of her thighs so that he's half-suffocated, but it only makes him lick harder, lap at her more greedily, coating his beard in her ever-increasing arousal and his own saliva.

"I want—I want—" She cards her hands through his hair, fingers fisting, nails grazing against his scalp as she squirms restlessly beneath him.

"What do you want, darling girl?" Jon gasps, as he comes up for air. But he knows— _knows_ what she needs, though she doesn't know how to ask—knows as his cock, fully hard, pulses painfully with every pant, every soft cry and breathy moan that graces his ears.

He slides up her body and her thighs cradle him—slick with his attention and the way that she wants him. And he wants her—wants her in every possible way—every moment, every day, and for the rest of his life, if only the gods weren't so cruel. They mock him with a glimpse of heaven, only to throw him down into the flames.

But he will have her tonight, and whenever she wishes, for as long as she wishes…

Jon plucks a soft kiss from her lips as his gilded body covers hers, smearing her flushed skin gold—his shimmering goddess with hazy blue eyes, who looks upon him as if he'd hung the moon; and he certainly would, if only to keep her looking at him like this forever—if only it were in his power to do so.

"Do you want this, princess?" he murmurs against her lips, flexing his hips so that his cock nudges at the opening of her sex—so that she may feel how badly he desires her, how he aches _only for her._

Her warm breath bursts against his mouth in a soft sigh, their lips brushing as she nods her head _yes._

"Won't you say it for me, love?" he implores, his nose nuzzling gently against the tip of hers. "Won't you say my name?"

"Jon…" Her voice is quiet, but steadier than her breath has been, as she runs her hands tentatively down the sides of his neck, across his collarbone. Her eyes—glittering black pools outlined by a strip of cerulean, a narrow sea in which he could drown—search his face, imploring him as he does her— "Won't you say mine?"

 _I don't even know her name…_

The realization strikes Jon like a blow in the arena. She is his princess, he'll make her his woman… but still he does not know who she is—and _by the gods,_ does he _want to._ Wants to murmur her name against her lips, her neck, in the valley of her breasts as he takes her, as assuredly as he wants to hear her say his—wants to shout it into her mouth when she makes him come, wants it to mingle with the sound of his own spilling from her divine lips—

"Tell me," Jon rasps as he takes those lips now, in a furious hunger for _all of her._ His fingers tangle in the ends of her hair and he says again, "Tell me, tell me your name, princess—"

"Sansa," she gasps when he ducks down to suck on her throat. Her back arches, heartbeat pressed to his, arms curling around his shoulders and hands in his hair. "My name is Sansa."

"Sansa…" A lovely name so befitting of his princess. "Sansa…" he says it again and again, a litany of love, a whispered chant, an exalted prayer to the cruel gods above who would seek to take her from him.

And each time he says it, she shudders against him.

He _aches_ for her—a need so great it weighs heavily upon his chest, within his breast, where his heart beats a painful crescendo to the sound of her name: _Sansa. Sansa. Sansa._

Jon steadies himself above her, palms braced flat on the bed as he pushes his hips forward. Slowly, tentatively, to ease the tip of his cock within her soft folds. _Gently_ —he tells himself, his arms shaking with the effort to temper his desire, to keep his hips still. She is not a maid, he knows, but he will take her as one just the same.

Their first time together—let it not be the last.

"Yes…" Sansa's breath hitches on a sharp, shuddering gasp, her fingers dig into the skin stretched taut over his biceps—smearing the paint and sweat that glimmers in the soft torchlight.

Her infinite softness engulfs him, yielding to his hardness in every way—the wet heat of her cunt embracing him like a lover— _her lover_ —as her walls quiver around his cock and suck him deeper.

"Jon, please…" Her breath stutters and he groans her name— _Sansa_ —because he can now, because she has graced him with the privilege just as she now graces him with the pleasure of her body, when she wriggles her hips against him, seeking to be closer still—seeking to be filled.

Jon obliges—his self-control be damned. He thrusts down deep to the base of his cock, letting her soft breathy moans guide him, as he loses himself in her arms, in her body, in her hot, pulsing heat. "Gods, Sansa your cunt is so tight… Tell me who you belong to, sweet girl, tell me you're mine…"

Moaning, long and low, she rocks against him faster, her hips thrusting upwards to meet the rhythm he sets. "Yours— _Jon,_ " she pants "— _yours._ I belong to you."

"Then wrap yourself around me, princess," Jon rasps, beard scraping against the smooth skin of her flushed cheek.

 _Seven save me…_ He trembles when her arms and legs encase him, clinging to his body, slick from the perspiration that coats them both. Jon plunders her mouth with his kiss, his tongue sweeping past her parted lips to claim—claim her mouth as his cock claims her cunt—all of her— _Sansa,_ his princess—her curves, her soft cries, the way her heart skips wildly beneath his calloused palm. And he imagines it beats just for him.

All of her, for all of him.

 _She is mine, and I am hers._

 _Mine._

Hips pumping furiously, his movements frenzied, Jon grasps her behind the knee, hooks her leg up over his hip and fucks her deeper— _harder._ His fingers press roughly at her thigh, imprinting himself on her sweet supple flesh when she fists his hair so hard he thinks she might scalp him. Jon doesn't care. He'd sacrifice every curl on his head to hear her peak with his name on her lips—savor the heavenly sound, revel in the cadence of her sweet voice.

Jon's breath hitches when he feels Sansa clench at him tighter—feels the muscles of her cunt start to constrict delightfully around his cock when he knows her release is close. _Gods, yes!_ He wants to bring her to peak, wants to give her everything she's never had before…

And she wants it, too; he can see it in the way her skin blooms pink, the way she holds him tighter, the rapid thrust of her hips, as if she's chasing something—in the widening of her eyes, and that little crease between her finely-drawn brows because she doesn't quite know what that something _is._

 _I'll tell her. I'll show her._

Jon buries his face in her neck, urging himself not to come until she does, and he rumbles in her ear, "I could fuck you into this bed all night, Sansa, would you like that?"

He licks the salt from her skin, pants in time with her own hitching breaths— "Fall asleep with my cock buried inside of you—" she cries out, digs her nails into his arms, marking him just as he does her, and he knows she's on the brink now, _so close_ "—wake up with my head between your legs, _gods,_ Sansa, but I would feast on your pretty cunt morning, noon, and night—"

As if he had the power to make her peak with nothing more but his whispered words, Sansa shudders around him, her muscles fluttering—clenching greedily at his cock with a violent force. And to prove his point, Jon withdraws from her slick heat abruptly—his lungs deflating at the heavy loss of sensation—but this isn't about him—it's all _for her_ —Sansa's pleasure—it drives him, as he slides down between her legs, cock aching, and he latches his mouth onto her cunt.

Hands shoving up under her arse, Jon hauls her hips up off the bed and closer to his greedy mouth—his tongue ravishing her—licking, sucking, coaxing Sansa to her peak as she thrashes wildly beneath him. Her back arches and his grip tightens—fingers digging into the soft swell of her arse, as her hands tangle in his curls, damp with the sweat that coats their skin—glistening golden with the paint that smears them both—another way he's marked her as his tonight.

His tongue slips up to circle her clit, lapping at her like he's a starved man whose hunger might never be quenched—and Jon thinks that's indeed true, as he'll never get enough of her, his beautiful Sansa.

"Jon—gods, _oh_ yes—" she pants, her stomach muscles clenching as she bears down on his face, and her hands yank up hard on his hair. "Oh, Jon—"

"Yes, come for me," Jon groans—hot breath in her cunt. "Come for me, my sweet girl."

And she does—cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide, her body shuddering around him as she comes apart—the shrill cry of his name, a stuttered, broken litany upon her lips. So surreal, and yet it's the realest thing Jon's ever heard—the realest thing he's ever felt, her body quivering in his hands—the tang of her citrus scent enveloping him—the heavenly taste of her sweet nectar on his tongue—and the sight of her all mussed up and panting beneath him.

And now she is his.

 _Mine,_ he thinks it—he _feels_ it, as he crawls up the bed, his body covering hers. "Mine," he says it, as he reaches to cup her face between his hands and he thumbs open her lips.

 _"Sansa,"_ Jon moans her name as he enters her body again in one quick, hard thrust—gasping before he takes her lips, too.

"Jon," she sighs around his kiss, her arms encircling him, her perfect little manicured nails scraping down his back, as she rocks her hips with the rhythm he sets.

He takes her harder—deep thrusts and short strokes, hips furiously fucking her into the bed as it rocks beneath them. And he's already there—dangling at the precipice, when he feels her muscles squeezing at his cock. They contract around him, as her body prepares to peak again.

"So tight—" Jon grounds between clenched teeth "— _gods,_ Sansa you feel so fucking good. Are you gonna come with me again, my princess?" he asks, for he wishes to find release with her this time. _Together._

"Yes—with you— _Jon,_ " Sansa whines his name, so long that she might never stop, as she rides her peak, her entire body contracting around him when she clutches him to her tighter, so that he can feel her heartbeat pressed to his.

Breath ragged and unable to hold back any longer, Jon thrusts upwards hard—once, twice—hands fumbling as he scrambles to reach between their bodies and withdraw before he spills his seed.

"No!" Sansa cries—staying him with her hands and the utterance of her words as her lips graze his ear— "inside of me."

Jon barely has time to register his shock when his release washes over him in a shuddering wave—hips rutting, chest heaving—

 _"Sansa,"_ he calls out her name. "Sansa," he stutters it, again and again— _Sansa_ —as he falls heavily upon her soft body— _Sansa_ —against the hollow of her throat where her pulse thuds— _Sansa_ —as he spills his seed deep within her.

His hands seek hers, entwining their fingers, as he slides them up the bed—foreheads pressed together, and his lips brush softly against hers.

 _"Sansa,"_ he breathes again, and clutches her fingers so tightly, so that she might never let him go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four- They Must Be Waiting For You To Move On**

All of your friends have been here for too long

 _They must be waiting for you to move on_

Girl, I'm not with it, I'm way too far gone

I'm not ready, eyes heavy now

—Friends, Chase Atlantic

* * *

 _Heat._ A delicious warmth cocoons her—around and within her, so heavy and yet utterly weightless. Sweltering and yet, glorious. _Heat._ Where his hot breath hits her throat, puffs slow and even in his peaceful slumber. _Heat._ Where his knee is nestled up between her thighs, sticky and sweat-slicked. _Heat._ Where his hand rests possessively against the gentle curve of her flat stomach.

Bronze against the creamy porcelain of her skin—big and strong, a calloused palm—his hand capable of wielding such violence… She had borne witness to it, known its fury. But it was a slow, gentle hand upon a woman's flesh—had been upon hers, and she could attest to that as well.

Sansa places her smaller hand atop his, so that her fingertips could trace the dips and curves of his knuckles. She shivers despite the warmth she's encased in, remembering how those hands had felt upon her body, as Jon had mapped every inch of her skin with both his hands and mouth. And _oh,_ his mouth…

So _that's_ what Olenna and Margaery had been on about, Sansa thinks with a grin she cannot contain. Her cheeks are still flushing pink when she feels his eyes on her. Like that first night, when the shadows had concealed his movements within his iron cage—but the heat of his gaze had touched her skin just as assuredly as if it had been his own two hands.

"What makes your cheeks bloom so, princess?" Jon asks her. His voice is husky, heavy with sleep, and its gravelly sound does the most delicious things to her insides.

"A girl's thoughts are her own, ser." Sansa finds herself bashful despite what they have just shared.

"Fair enough." Jon rolls one massive shoulder, his glorious muscles bunching beneath smeared gold when he raises himself up on one elbow.

"But tell me this—" He spreads his fingers so that hers slip between his, and he threads them together before bringing them to his lips. "Do I allow myself to partake in the credit for the smile that graces your face, sweet princess?"

"Are you always so humble?" Sansa asks when the brush of his lips sends the rose glow of her cheeks spreading lower.

Jon chuckles—a rich, warm sound that wraps around Sansa like a soft caress, while he watches, from under hooded lashes, her blush travel. "I confess I am full of myself. It is hard to remain otherwise when I have only just lain with the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros."

A smirk twists at the corner of his mouth. "I must also confess—" his words slip past the kisses he presses on her wrist, as he pushes his knee higher, nudging at the apex of her thighs "—that I would rather it was _you_ who was full of _me_."

Sansa gasps, her legs falling open unashamedly to accommodate how she wants him, and she thinks that the need he stokes within her may never cease. She isn't sure that she ever wants it to.

"Jon," she moans his name when his lips find her throat. The rasp of his beard scratches at her delicate skin, but she revels in the scrape—the burn, the _feel_ of it all, raw and real and she's never felt more alive.

 _Sansa_ —her name falls unbidden like a chant from his mouth—a whispered prayer of reverence to the gods as he teases soft moans and sighs from her parted lips. He drinks from them, swallowing the sounds she makes, as his hands begin to worship her anew.

The soft rustling of hurried feet upon marbled floors momentarily steals their attention, and Sansa's modesty is grateful when Jon instinctively shields her naked body with his own.

"Apologies." One of the two servant girls bows her head from the other side of the privacy curtain, and Sansa feels Jon's body go rigid above her.

"Domina retires for the evening. She asks that we bring you refreshments, and to tell you that clean linens have been left for you in the baths." The girl clutches a clay wine jug in her hands, her companion a tray, and when Sansa thanks them, they deposit their fare on the nearby table and leave as quickly as they'd come.

Only with their retreating footsteps does Sansa feel _some_ of the tension ebb from Jon's body. "How long have you paid for my services?" he asks when he rolls away from her.

There's a harshness to his voice that twists unexpectedly in her breast like the sharp point of a blade, and Sansa does not understand. It quickens her heart and pains her breath, as much as the sudden absence of the comforting weight of his body.

"I did not pay for you." Her voice is naught more than a whisper—barely a puff of air, yet it sounds so deafening in the hollow silence—a brittle cord stretched taut between them, it threatens to snap and catapult her from the warmth she was only just nestled in, so safe and protected and adored… _and now,_ she feels bereft and at a loss for what to do without it.

She's suddenly very aware of her nakedness, as Sansa slips from the bed. She reaches for her robe when Jon is behind her—so quiet she hadn't even heard him get up. His hand closes around her wrist—his touch firm, yet gentle, when he spins her around.

"Forgive me, Sansa." His other hand moves to her chin, pulling her gaze upwards. "I only thought…"

The words die on his lips as they capture hers, and though his hands still hold her to him tenderly, there is nothing gentle in the way that Jon kisses her now. His mouth is urgent—his tongue demanding and possessive as it pushes its way past parted lips and curls around her own—as if he could convey all the things he feels, yet cannot say, by touch and touch alone.

And he does.

Wanted and cherished. _Breathless…_ a storm of emotions flood Sansa's senses as she drowns in all that is this man— _Jon_ —and she melts into his embrace a mere shadow of the woman she was before she'd lain in his arms.

And she wonders if she can ever be that woman again…

* * *

There are guards waiting outside her chambers to escort them to the baths when she and Jon finally emerge. She is draped in her fine silk dressing robe, but her gladiator is naked as his name day, streaked in gold. He seems neither embarrassed nor ashamed as he struts between the guards who flank him—as he was when he threw down his weapon and stalked from the arena with that same air of self-assuredness.

Sansa does not share in his confidence. She keeps her head bowed and her eyes lowered demurely, as they make their way towards the baths. She understands Margaery's reasoning for the guards, but their presence unnerves her all the same. Not for what she's done with Jon— _no,_ she could _never_ feel shame for what they've shared— _but_ for _who_ could find out from a single wagging tongue. Especially since their state of dress—or undress, _rather_ —leaves little to the imagination in explanation of what has only just transpired between them.

Rather than follow into the baths, the guards stand sentry in the corridor. Still it's much less privacy than Sansa would like, but when Jon steps into the steaming pool with no hesitation, to scrub the smears of gold from his skin—Sansa is aware of _only_ him.

She lets the robe slip from her shoulders, feels the heat of his gaze return to her as the silk skims down her body and pools to the tile floor at her feet. The charms of the gold belt at her waist jingle as she pulls her hair up high atop her head, and reaches for a soft cloth to wash with, before she steps into the water.

Sansa takes her time, letting him drink his fill with the grey of his gaze; the warm flush that breaks upon her body has little to do with the heated water that laps at her skin. She loves the way he looks at her, the way his eyes worship her as if she were some sort of deity of lore sprung straight from his dreams—for surely he'd been born of her own heart's desires.

Like the mighty god Apollo, he _is_ the sun—the heat. Fire made flesh, as the flames of the torches burning in their sconces upon the marbled walls catch the gold still gleaming on his naked skin. They lick at the sharp planes of his muscles, the corded strength, the tempered beauty—as if he'd been carved straight from marble himself, a work of timeless art to feast one's eyes upon, and Sansa drinks her own fill.

The rose petals that float atop the bath water tease her nose with their sweet scent, as she moves to stand before Jon. Sansa draws her courage with her next breath, dips the cloth to wet it—flicks her tongue against her lips to wet them too, for suddenly her mouth has gone dry.

"May I?" she asks, raising the dripping cloth from the rose-scented water. She doesn't need his permission—she _knows_ this, he _knows it too,_ she's sure—but she will have it anyway.

He doesn't answer right away—and for a moment, Sansa thinks perhaps he doesn't intend to answer her at all—as he stares, grey eyes wide. And so she asks again, her own wide eyes imploring: "Please?"

Jon's answer finally comes in the form of a nod, as Sansa presses the cloth to his chest, above his rapidly beating heart. _Boom boom boom,_ it thuds under the gentle pressure of her hand as she swipes it across his skin. He shudders, with a sharp inhalation of breath, his eyes falling closed as he releases her name on a ragged sigh: _"Sansa…"_

"So beautiful," Sansa murmurs, her eyes transfixed with the way the water runs down the length of his body in gold-tinged rivulets.

And she can think of no other word to describe him, no other word to describe the way he makes her feel. _Beautiful…_ when she rinses the cloth free of gold remnants and brings it back to his heated skin again.

Jon's eyes are still closed as she pushes the cloth across the broadness of his shoulders, sweeps it gently over the scars that mar his chest—both old and new, a canvas of victories forged through pain and strength and perseverance. She drags the cloth lower, down over the hard rigid muscles of his abdomen that quiver beneath her clumsy touch, eyeing the dark brush of hair that arrows just above the water, and she blushes anew.

Rinsing the cloth again, Sansa moves behind Jon in the water. The gold paint lingers here more, but for where the distinct pattern of her fingers have left tracks—marked him where the bite of her nails left scratches in the flesh of his back. _Mine,_ she thinks, as she remembers how passionately he'd claimed her—with both his fervent words and touch. _Mine, mine, mine._ She blushes deeper when she glances down at the gold paint embedded under the crescent moons of her nails.

Sansa dips them into the water, rinsing them clean before returning to her task, smoothing the soft washing cloth across the broad expanse of Jon's back. There are scars here too. Deep layers of welts in horrendous webs—like the lashes of a whip, and her gentle heart breaks and swells at once, squeezing painfully in her breast.

 _Who hurt you?_ she longs to ask him, longs to strike out at whomever would do such a terrible thing to another human being, as a fierce protectiveness stirs deep within her. _Mine._

She is unsure what's come over her, when Sansa dips to press her lips upon his puckered flesh. His skin is hot and Jon's body shakes with the anguished cry that breaks through his clenched teeth and splits the silence surrounding them.

It echoes in her ears as she drags her lips like she drags the soft cloth—the memory of his mouth on her wrist only further fueling the sudden burning need to kiss away his hurts, to soothe as he had soothed. Her bruises will heal—fade into oblivion, into the porcelain of her skin with time, but Jon would forever carry the burden of these marks along with their bitter memories.

"Sansa…" Her name sounds foreign to her ears—such a strangled sound, when her arms wrap 'round Jon's waist, and she presses her cheek between his shoulder blades.

 _Mine. You are mine._

"I would wash your hair?" she whispers against his wet skin, and feels him shudder again. It vibrates into her body and she hugs him all the more tightly, as if she could absorb some of his pain—take it upon herself and help to bear some of the heavy burden he carries.

"Please," she presses when Jon isn't forthcoming with his response. Another request for permission, however unnecessary. She need only to tell him her intent, and he would be in no position to argue—but Sansa would never do that… _not to Jon._

"Only if you want," she feels it necessary to add, and he answers by way of falling to his knees in the pool, the water sloshing with the sudden quickness of his movements.

It is a deeply intimate act—an honor only wives bestow upon their husbands, their most beloved—to wash a man's hair. It's an honor Sansa has _never_ given to her own husband; it's one he does not deserve, she thinks, as she reaches to comb her fingers through Jon's thick black curls.

She can think of no one who deserves this honor more, as Jon leans into her touch, groaning like a man starved for affection. And Sansa is ever eager to give it, to please him, as he has pleased her. To thank him in this small measure, for showing her that humiliation and pain need not be what awaits a woman in the bedchamber— _or ever,_ if a man cares for more than just himself.

But she will not think of Joffrey. Not here and not now. Not when Jon's head falls back to rest within the circle of her arms—so trusting, as she smooths her fingers through his curls, her nails gently grazing his scalp, spreading the strands through the rose-scented water.

She had kittens once, as a child in Winterfell, and the sound he makes now reminds Sansa of those darling little balls of fluff. Their chests rumbling with contentment when she would scratch behind their ears in such a way.

"Does it bring you joy, to know you sentence me to a swift arse-kicking in the ludus when I return smelling of rose petals, princess?" Jon teases her when he opens his eyes to her warm smile.

"It is a vast improvement," she cannot help but tease him back.

"Do I offend?" He pouts rather adorably, and Sansa resists the urge to pluck a kiss from his soft lips.

She wrinkles her nose in mock distaste. "Only mildly now."

"Oh?" Jon growls. The water sloshes and suddenly he is on his feet once more, and Sansa finds herself again at his mercy.

He backs her against the smooth wall of the pool, his strong arms boxing her in. The tiles feel cool upon her naked skin—a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body that now presses so intimately against her.

"Then I must, I think, return the favor, and scrub my princess clean of such offense." His breath is hot at the shell of her ear, his tongue tracing its delicate edge before he nips at her lobe.

Sansa shivers, goosebumps skittering across her flesh as Jon's mouth traces a path of hot, wet kisses down her neck and back up her throat. His hands still remain fixed to the sides of the pool, but Sansa is instantly aflame, anticipation warming her from within.

"Touch me," she gasps, when his teeth scrape against her jaw. "Put your hands on my body, Jon."

He groans into her mouth when their lips crash together—so much want and need—a passion so all-consuming it threatens to spark, to catch fire and burn them both from the inside-out. But Jon's hands are gentle—always gentle, when they skim down her sides, one grasping her hip, the other divesting her of the soft cloth still clutched in her fist.

"Aye, you want that?" his rasps against her kiss-swollen lips, his chest heaving.

 _More than anything._

"Such a filthy girl…" He brings the cloth between their bodies and swipes it quickly across the taut peaks of her nipples.

A cry wrenches from Sansa's lips at the sharp sensation, and Jon is quick to silence her mouth with the pressure—light and tender still—of his hand.

 _"Shhh,"_ he admonishes her. His mouth is hot on her ear again, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of her hair. "You'll bring the guards." His free hand pushes the soft cloth lower, down over her flat stomach, and stops just above her sex. "How can I touch you, when you misbehave so?"

Sansa whimpers into his palm. She can feel his desire for her—straining, insistent, as it juts against the softness of her belly. Her body humming and desperate for Jon's touch, her hips canting forward on their own, she flexes against him for friction— _sweet,_ sweet friction. It is a monstrous thing—her ache for this man, that she would act so shamefully, but Sansa is long past caring.

"You like when I touch you here, don't you, my sweet Sansa?" He dips the cloth beneath the water, brushes it gently between her thighs.

"A shameless little princess with such a sweet cunt—" he rubs his thumb gently across her sex, parting her lips " _—mmmm,_ of course you do."

Sansa moans against his hand, as her hips rock towards the barely-there friction he provides, and Jon smirks in that maddening way that makes her want to kiss him and slap him—and not necessarily in that order.

"But what do you like most, love, hmm? My fingers?" His thumb grazes against the nub where all of her passions are centered and he catches her muffled cry in his palm. "Or perhaps my mouth?" he asks, as he traces the outer edge of her ear again, with the wet, hot slickness of his tongue.

"My cock?" It jerks in response, as Jon groans and pushes it into her soft belly.

With a brazenness Sansa never knew she possessed before this night, she gives him his answer and reaches for his swollen flesh, curling her fingers around its length—slowly, tentatively, curiously—and now it's Jon who cries out. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, hissing through the sensations she unleashes with an unsteady and unpracticed hand.

"Mine," she finally gives voice to her thoughts—a muffled proclamation against the palm of his hand.

 _"Seven save me,"_ he gasps against that same hand, still pressed gently over her mouth, as Sansa revels in this newfound power she wields.

His hips move in time with her clumsy efforts, rutting against the soft skin of her belly, as she pants into his palm, her breath ragged. And now she understands the pleasure in giving, when the burning between her thighs increases with Jon's every gentle thrust into her hand, and she wants only to please him as he has done for her.

"Enough sweetheart," he croaks, finally staying her hand as he chastises her sweetly. "If you keep that up, it will all be over before it's even begun."

He removes his hand from over her mouth, and replaces it with his own. Their panting breaths mingling with fervent lips and stroke of tongues, hearts pounding where they press together chest to chest. And it's _not enough_ —Sansa leans heavily into his touch, yearning to be closer still—and she thinks that if she could crack open Jon's chest and climb inside beside his beating heart, it would _still_ not be close enough for her.

She pulls him tighter against her. Her nails pierce the skin of his shoulders, sink into his flesh to anchor herself to him when his hot mouth slips down to ravish where her pulse beats frantically against her throat.

 _Mine. You are mine._

"Jon," Sansa breathes his name against his jaw, where the stubble of his beard rasps against her smooth skin, and she burrows her face in the hollow of his neck to press her lips there. "Won't you stay the night with me?" she asks. _And forever,_ she longs to ask as well.

"Stay—" Her voice is desperate, strained, as Jon pulls back and his calloused palms frame her face. His grey eyes seem to gaze straight through to her soul, and she trembles at the thought of what he might see there. "Stay with me… but only because you _want_ to…"

"Aye." He presses his forehead to hers, his thumbs sweeping against her flushed cheeks. "I do," he inhales deeply, his whole body heaving within the sigh when he exchanges his forehead for his lips, and places a soft kiss to her brow. "I will stay with you, Sansa."

She doesn't realize she's holding her breath until Jon lifts her into his arms, and the air rushes from her lungs. He hugs her tightly to his chest when he carries her from the bath, and sets her on her feet just long enough to snatch her silk robe from the tiles and wrap it 'round her body, to conceal her nakedness. He cares nothing for his own state of undress when he hoists her back into his arms again, and Sansa clings to him, naked and dripping, as he stalks past the guards standing sentry as if they are nothing but an afterthought.

Her chambers have been tended in their absence. The gold-streaked sheets have been changed, their masks collected; and the food and wine they had partaken prior to the bath, removed. Jon lays her down upon the bed, and kisses her softly, his hands framing her face once again, as he settles himself between her parted thighs. _Yours. All yours._

"I should think I would never leave your side if I were but allowed to think such things," he murmurs against her mouth, his hands already sliding down the length of her body.

Sansa arches against him, when he grabs her behind the knee and hooks her leg over his hip, sheathing himself fully inside of her in one, swift upward stroke. They gasp together—in sync, beating hearts and writhing bodies.

 _I am his, and he is mine._

"Use me as you see fit, my princess—" the words ride the groan that spills from his mouth, as Jon sucks her bottom lip between his teeth and tugs "—I will gladly return to you for as long as you'll have me."

 _Forever,_ Sansa thinks, as she wraps herself around him— _I would have you forever, Jon._

* * *

 _Crack!_ Sansa is jolted from sleep with a smart stinging slap to her arse.

"Awake with you, hussy!" Margaery squeals, leaping onto the bed as Sansa blinks wildly, reaching blindly for the sheets to conceal her nakedness.

"Oh, _now_ you are modest," Margaery continues to tease her. "And just where are your masks, then? Hmm?" She reaches to brush the hair back from Sansa's bleary eyes. "I'm sorry, but it is well past noon-time, dear sister, and I simply couldn't wait any longer for all the sordid details."

"Past noon-time?" Sansa echoes in disbelief that she had slept the entire morning away. She clutches the sheet to her, a sudden panic squeezing in her chest. "Where is—"

"The Champion of High Garden?" Margaery quirks a well-shaped brow. "Returned to the ludus early this morning, well before the house roused from slumber. I told you, I am no amateur."

"You didn't—I mean…" Sansa stumbles over her words. Sleep still weighs heavily upon her, dulling her mind—and _his_ smell still lingers in the sheets, only exacerbating the flustered state of her addled brain.

She shakes her head, clears her throat and tries again. "Please don't be angry with him. He only stayed because I asked him to."

A slow smile spreads across Margaery's face, as she sweeps Sansa's hair over her shoulder. "Sweetling, I'm not angry. I'm positively brimming with happiness for you."

She frowns briefly, and presses her finger to the spot right below Sansa's ear. "However, unless you expect me to douse you in powder, you'd best tell him to _only_ mark you in places your gowns will cover."

Sansa has the good sense to look down as her cheeks flush pink and hot—yet she's unable to contain the smile that pulls at the corners of her mouth when she rubs her hand over the spot and remembers. _I am his._

"Well, come on, let's hear it," Margaery chirps excitedly. "And if you don't tell me you peaked at least twice, I swear to the _gods_ I will have the man gelded!"

* * *

 _Crack!_ The wooden sparring swords crash together with jarring force, as Jon deflects Tormund's blow, dancing sideways to lesson the impact.

"You're back on your game! Did you finally rub one off, _oh_ mighty Champion?" Tormund japes, grunting as he rounds on Jon again.

"Clearly you didn't," Jon tosses back without missing a beat. He ducks under his companion's next swing and jabs a well-placed elbow between the giant's shoulder blades.

Tormund hits the ground with an _oomph!_ and a heavy _thud,_ but uses his misfortune to his advantage, and kicks Jon's legs out from under him.

 _"Seven hells,"_ Jon groans as the ground comes up to meet him, and his back slams into the dirt.

"You fall for it every damn time." Tormund's loud barking laugh sounds over the ringing in Jon's ears.

His chest heaving, he pulls himself into a sitting position to regard his friend with a wry grin. "You seem to be on your arse, too."

Tormund throws back his head and laughs louder, then clambers to his feet with an easy grace, despite his hulking size. "Look, I just want you to feel good about yourself." He grins, extending a big meaty paw.

Jon grasps his hand without hesitation, grunting as the giant ginger yanks him back onto his feet.

"You smell like a fucking flower." Tormund wrinkles his nose in distaste, shoves Jon backwards, and resumes his sparring stance.

"You've been too long in the sun, my friend," Jon retorts. He lunges forward with a heavy swing, though he's unable to hide the smile that flashes briefly on his face at the memory of sweet Sansa's hands in his hair. Had he not warned her of this very thing?

Yet, Jon doesn't care. He'll gladly smell of roses and citrus and any other scents in Sansa's arsenal—and happily suffer the consequences, too—if only to hold her in his arms again. Thankfully, Domina has given him the opportunity to do just that—to return to the villa tonight, and any night that Sansa requests for the duration of her stay here in High Garden.

Tormund raises his own sword—wood cracking then scraping as they shove their body weight into each other, neither of them willing to bend. "The hell I have," he growls, then leans closer and scents the air around Jon again. "I knew that's why they dragged you to the villa yesterday. It appears that you are as irresistible to gingers, as they are to you."

Jon laughs and finally relents, stumbling backwards. "You talk too much."

He prepares to lunge again when Doctore's whip strikes the dirt, and they all cease sparring to give him their undivided attention.

"Gladiators," Davos's voice rings out with the fierceness of his whip. "A new recruit joins our ranks this day." He indicates the man standing beside him. "This is Ramsay. His benefactor, Joffrey Baratheon, has sent him here to train under the finest Gladiators of Westeros."

 _"Ho!"_ the Gladiators all chant, raising their sparring weapons high in the air.

"Let us show him how champions are made!"

 _"Ho!"_ they all yell again.

"Joffrey Baratheon?" Jon mumbles for only Tormund's ears.

"The scabby older brother of our Dominus—" Tormund whispers back "—husband to that pretty lady you spent the night defiling."

Jon eyes the man—Ramsay—warily, instantly disliking him on that premise alone. He's of average height and build, dark hair and an amicable enough smile that he bestows upon them all. But there's a cockiness about him that's unsettling, and his blue eyes are cold and devoid of emotion.

"All of you to the mess." Davos cracks his whip once more, sending them scurrying to put some food in their bellies before training resumes.

Jon hangs back like he always does, never partaking in the perks of being the Champion—the right to take his fill in food first. Not because he's proud, but because he doesn't see himself as better than any of his fellow comrades. His position is tenuous, he knows it. Their own Doctore could attest to that.

All it takes to end it all is one well-placed blow…


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Some notes on regarding a specific event mentioned in the chapter, that those of you whom haven't watched Spartacus, may not be familiar with._

 _Primus - The primary event of a series (usually a days worth) of gladiatorial games. Basically, the "main event" or "main attraction". This could be anything from an epic re-creation of a historical battle, a "battle royale" between dozens of fighters, a duel between highly skilled and famous gladiators or the much-anticipated execution of a major criminal or enemy of Rome._

 _**Also, I did borrow some of Doctore/Dominus dialogue from Spartacus - regarding welcoming the new recruits!_

 **Chapter 5 - 'Cause I Ain't Got Patience To Slow Down The Bass**

Girl, tell me what you're doing on the other side?

And so, just tell me what you're doing with that other guy?

 _'Cause I ain't got patience to slow down the bass..._

— Friends, Chase Atlantic

* * *

Jon lay awake, Sansa's sleeping form wrapped around him—a tangle of long limbs and silken, rose-scented flesh. The soft citrus of her warm breath ghosts across his chest, where her sweet face is nestled against him. Despite the sweltering summer heat, the humid haze that hangs heavy in her chambers, this is the way they always ended their nights: wrapped in each other's arms.

The guards would come to return him to the ludus soon, as they do every morning just before dawn breaks—whisking him away while the villa still sleeps, and no one is the wiser.

And so Jon would not waste a single moment to look upon Sansa's lovely face, so peaceful in her slumber. Her long sable lashes fan across rosy cheeks, still flushed from their vigorous lovemaking. Her soft lips, parted just slightly, full and pink and swollen from his kisses.

 _Gods, but she is so beautiful._ Sometimes it hurts to look upon her, almost as much as when Jon could not—in the quiet morning hours spent alone in his cell, her palla clutched in his hands, with only his memories and the scent of her— _rose petals and citrus_ —still heavy on his skin.

Their passion-filled nights had bled into weeks, and weeks into months—the passage of time swift and ever-fleeting. Soon summer would draw to its conclusion and, with that, so would their time together. Sansa would return to her own home—and to her husband…

 _A man who does not deserve her._

Not that Jon is foolish enough to believe that he could ever deserve such a woman as fine and sweet as Sansa. He's not really sure that a man truly worthy of her even exists. But he would spend every breath he had left _trying_ to be… would love her every bit as fervently as he desired her… if he were but allowed to think or do such things.

But alas, he is naught but a filthy slave, with nothing to offer her. What good comes of torturing himself with thoughts of things that could never possibly come to pass?

 _And yet,_ he does.

More than he cares to admit.

Perhaps Sansa is a bit to blame for that, Jon thinks, as he tugs her more tightly against him. The soft sigh that escapes her wraps itself around his heart, squeezing at it painfully.

He'd never known anyone like her—someone with the ability to look past _what_ he is, and see him for _who_ he is instead. A highborn lady who doesn't turn her nose up at those below her station. For, in all the time they'd spent together, Sansa had never once acted as though he was beneath her, never treated him as anything other than her equal.

It hadn't taken him long to realize that his need for Sansa far surpassed his physical want of her body. Jon craves just being _near_ her: The sweet cadence of her voice, the intoxicating scent of her skin; the gentle way she cards her fingers through his hair, when he lays in her lap to listen to her stories of growing up in a place she calls Winterfell; the way she looks when she talks about her family—all bright eyes and bursting with fondness; the way that she trusts him enough to share these things—even though he has nothing to give her in return—and the way she expects nothing from him, anyway.

Yet, Jon knows he would lay the world at her feet if it were within his power to do so.

In two days' time he'll return to King's Landing for the Primus, to face the Emperor's own Champion in the arena—a Dothraki from the land across the Narrow Sea, according to Doctore. Such men are reckless, fearless, and known for their unwavering strength and brutality. Doctore has spoken of little else, pushing Jon harder in his training than ever before. It was, after all, a Dothraki's hand that had dealt Davos the crippling blow that had forced him into an early retirement.

But the prospect of meeting a Dothraki in the arena does not frighten him. _No,_ Jon thinks, as the tell-tale rustling of the guards in the corridor alert him that it's time to return to the ludus. There isn't much he fears anymore—slavery had cured him of such inconvenient musings long ago.

But as he slips carefully from Sansa's gentle embrace, a coldness slithers around him, despite the lingering heat—skirting down his spine as he rolls from the bed to look upon her once more before taking his leave. It's a regular occurrence now—has been for weeks, and Jon _knows_ what it is, though he _loathes_ to name it, to give it power over him.

 _Fear._

Fear, that this may be the last time he drinks of her beauty—the last time he feels her sweet touch, or hears the sound of his name on her soft, pliant lips. Fear, that her summons will eventually stop… that soon all this will end and be naught but a memory.

 _Fear,_ that he'll be alone again.

And like the night before, and the night before that, Jon does his best to shake it off.

He bends to press a soft kiss to Sansa's brow, and silently prays to any gods that may still be listening to let what he whispers into her skin be true:

"Until tonight, my love."

* * *

She had thought herself to be ravenous—that is, until Sansa takes her usual seat on the balcony, preparing to break her fast with her gracious hosts. She smiles and thanks Tommen as he pushes in her chair, and then moves to take his place beside Margaery.

"You look a bit flushed, child." Olenna is as sharp as ever, honing in on Sansa's discomfort before she can even put it to voice.

A simple nod of the old woman's head, and a servant girl moves closer to fan her feathers at Sansa's heated skin.

"Yes, the heat is rather stifling and relentless this summer," Margaery sighs, nibbling on the grape pinched between her slender fingers.

"Perhaps we should venture to the ocean today, sister?" She pushes the other half of her grape into Tommen's eager, grinning mouth, her own tugging into a smile as her grandmother snorts into her goblet. "What do you say? If the gods refuse to bless us with some rain before the summer's end, we shall seek refuge in Neptune's embrace."

"Yes, that sounds delightful." Sansa nods as she reaches for her goblet with an unsteady hand. The wine is warm on her tongue, and sits heavily when it hits her empty stomach.

"Grandmother, will you join us?"

"And risk being harpooned when I'm mistaken for a sea urchin swimming amongst mermaids? I'm too old for such things, my dear, and more likely to sink like a stone." Olenna shakes her head no. "I'll stay behind and keep your husband company."

"Your company shall be well-received then, Grandmother," Tommen mumbles over the next grape Margaery is popping into his mouth. "I've much yet to prepare for our journey to King's Landing, and the Gladiators do move with caution in your presence."

"As should anyone with sense," Margaery quips with her signature saucy wink. Then, turning her attentions to Sansa, she shoves the platter of fruit and cheese in her direction and insists, "Eat."

Sansa reaches for a slice of melon and nibbles at the corner, the wine in her stomach immediately sloshing in protest.

"Are you alright, Sansa?" She isn't sure who's asked, as her name suddenly seems to swirl around her from all directions.

 _Sansa…_

It rings in her ears as her stomach churns, until it's muffled and as hazy as her vision—and she is naught but a speck upon a distant shore, the lapping waves threatening to rise up and swallow her, as the bile in her stomach threatens to do the same.

 _Sansa…_

Distressed, she shoves herself up from the table, mumbling apologies—or, at least, she thinks she does—before she clamps a hand over her mouth. The chair she had only just occupied clatters to the ground behind her as the world tilts on its axis and begins to spin maddeningly around her.

 _Run!_ Her legs shake beneath her as Sansa makes haste for her chambers—barely making it there before her knees buckle and fold beneath her, and her belly empties its meager contents upon the tiled floor. Tears burn the back of her eyelids as she retches and retches and _retches_ —her body still heaving long after her stomach has nothing left to yield.

"Sansa?"

Her name is clear now, and Margaery's hands are a soothing balm upon Sansa's heated skin when she smooths the hair back from her dampened brow. "Sweetling, are you alright? Shall I fetch the Medicus?"

"I—I'm sorry," Sansa stammers, her cheeks flushing more now with her quickening embarrassment. "The heat, and the wine—I must have— _oh,_ I've made such a mess!"

She struggles to scramble to her feet, but Margaery's hands stay her; firm yet gentle upon her shoulders, they give a reassuring squeeze. " _Shhh._ You speak nonsense, sister. You've nothing to be sorry for. You gave me a fright, is all, taking ill out of nowhere like that.

"But I wonder…" Margaery's words break off, and her brow furrows ever so slightly.

"Wonder what?" Sansa asks, and places a hand upon her unruly stomach to calm it. She is further perplexed when Margaery places her own hand atop it, and a slow smile tugs the corners of her mouth upwards.

"Sansa, when is the last time that you bled?"

"Bled?" Sansa blinks, and tries to remember… but the world begins to spin again as the implication of Margaery's words sink in.

 _Can it be?_ She has not bled in weeks— _months_ —not since first arriving at High Garden at the beginning of the summer.

"I have not." Her voice is naught but a puff of air as her fingers curl protectively against her abdomen, tangling in the silks of her gown.

 _Am I truly with child?_

Sansa's heart clenches and then soars at the thought, her breath stuttering in short, labored pants as Margaery squeals with joy and throws her arms around her.

"We must celebrate!" Margaery chirps, pulling back momentarily to clap her hands giddily before throwing her arms around Sansa again. "Did I not tell you of the virility of Gladiators?"

Sansa stiffens in her arms.

 _Jon's child._

"Sansa?" Margaery immediately senses her withdrawal. She pulls back to fix her earnest blue gaze upon her dearest friend, willing her to speak. "Does this not please you?"

 _Yes,_ Sansa wishes to shout—to yell it from the villa's rooftop, to scream it from the center of the arena, to tell any and all with ears to listen, that she carries the babe of the man she lov—

She gasps, shuddering at the realization.

 _The man she loves._

Margaery sucks in a sharp breath of her own, her eyes widening with sudden clarity.

"You love him," she whispers into the space between them, putting voice to the words that Sansa cannot seem to utter.

And somehow that makes it all the more real. The words ring in her ears like a tragic love ballad—beautiful, heart-wrenching, doomed.

And Sansa cannot lie—not to her truest and most dearest friend, when the tears begin to slip down her cheeks, streaking her skin with their salty warmth, and she nods slowly in affirmation.

 _Yes,_ she loves him—she loves Jon.

Perhaps she had from the moment she'd first lain eyes upon him in the arena, before he had even twisted her in the confines of her own palla and jerked her against the bars of his cage— _against him._ His heart had beaten a steady tattoo beneath her palms that she had felt even through his armor.

Did it— _could it_ beat for her, as well? _Does it even matter?_ She is a married woman.

A married woman, who loves a man that is not her husband. Who carries a babe that is not her husband's.

" _Oh,_ sweet girl…" Margaery sweeps her thumbs under Sansa's eyes, and then crushes her to her bosom. "I am so sorry. This is all my fault… I only wished to help you. I never thought…"

 _"No."_ Sansa clings to her, surprised at the harsh tone of her own voice, however muffled against the front of Margaery's fine silk stola.

She had known tenderness, affection—what it meant to feel something other than fear at a man's touch, and Sansa cannot find it within herself to regret any of it, regardless of the outcome.

"You mustn't tell him of the child." Margaery keeps her voice low, her soft lips pressing to Sansa's furrowed brow. "If you truly care for him, if you value his life…"

She doesn't finish, but her warning is clear. "Everyone must think it is Joffrey's babe that you carry. He must never be given reason to doubt it."

Sansa knows Margaery's words ring true, even as the overwhelming urge to see Jon crashes upon her with such violent force, it nearly robs her of her breath.

 _Nightfall cannot come soon enough…_

* * *

"Continuing to watch the sun will not make it descend any faster, you know?" Tormund teases, as Jon throws up his shield to deflect the giant's incoming blow.

"I grow restless." He swings the shield out and counters with his own hard forward thrust.

Tormund grunts and stumbles backwards, letting his arms go slack momentarily as he catches his breath. "To fight in the arena, or to bury yourself between soft yielding thighs?"

"Both." Jon smiles, and swipes the sweat from his brow even as he remains in fighting stance. "But presently, the latter. Now, pick up your sword before Doctore comes for our heads."

"It is not Doctore who watches us, but the new recruit." Tormund jerks his head in Ramsay's direction.

Jon shrugs, paying no more attention to the man today than when he'd arrived nearly two months ago. "He _should_ be watching, if he means to learn."

"Yes, but he looks upon you with evident lust." Tormund tosses his sword up in the air and catches it by the hilt, his next words mingling with the usual barking guffaws of his laughter, as he lunges for Jon again. "He either means to fuck you or kill you. Shall I tell him to get in line?"

* * *

Her head still feels heavy, even as Sansa finally releases the pins from her hair and her auburn waves tumble freely down her back, where the tension of the day settles. She releases a ragged breath, willing herself to be calm as she drags her brush through the length of her hair, bringing the strands to a fine, glossy sheen, in a bid to keep her idle hands busy.

Despair and trepidation weigh heavily upon her—the need to see Jon festering within her breast like an open wound, intensifying with every beat of her heart and every second that passes in the absence of his presence. The day had passed with such an aching slowness, that even the company of her most beloved friend had not eased the burden of Sansa's unpleasant, racing thoughts.

Finally, the night has come, bringing with it a stale, warm breeze that ruffles the curtains that hang about the bed and stirs her unbound hair. Sansa sets the brush back down, and opens the sash of her silk robe to allow her skin to breathe through the thin fabric of the tunic she wears beneath it—allowing herself to finally expel the breath she feels like she's been holding all day, as she hears the familiar echo of footsteps out in the corridor.

Sansa stands, moving on eager feet to welcome her lover.

Yet, it is not Jon who graces her bedchamber this night.

"Hello, wife." He smiles—a sneer, really, as he drags his cold, cruel gaze down the length of her body.

"Joffrey," she whispers his name, her throat closing around the sudden pressure lodged within, robbing her of breath as her heart stutters painfully.

"Are you not happy to see your husband after so many months apart?"

"Of course," Sansa lies, surprised at how easily the falsehood slips like honeyed wine from her tongue.

"Then why do you not show it?" Joffrey takes a menacing step towards her. "Where are your kisses? Your sweet embrace?"

He mocks her with each step that breaches the gap between them, until he stands before her expectantly and continues, "The warmth of your loving arms leaves something to be desired."

"You were—" Sansa manages a nervous laugh "—unexpected, is all."

Her hands shake as she reaches to close the sash of her robe, but Joffrey's hands stay her as he dips to press a kiss upon her mouth.

Sansa gasps at the unexpected show of affection. But his lips are hard and unyielding, devoid of any hint of warmth or emotion. It is as she suspected; his previous words ringing false and full of mockery—further proven when he jerks back as though the act of kissing his own wife repulses him.

"I've come to accompany my brother to the upcoming Games. I had hoped my man would be competing in the arena, but Tommen tells me he has not yet earned the mark, nor the title of Gladiator."

"What halts progress?" Sansa quickly fastens her robe, feigning interest in the discussion. There is but _one_ man in the ludus that occupies her thoughts, and it isn't Joffrey's newest play-thing.

Joffrey sits down upon the bed, busying himself with removing his belted sash and shoes. "Tommen did not say. He was too busy prattling on about you and an incident at the breakfast table this morning."

He blows out an impatient breath, as if she is but a mere inconvenience. "Are you ill?"

"I —" She swallows convulsively, as Margaery's words ring in her ears— _Everyone must think it is Joffrey's babe that you carry. He must never be given reason to doubt it_ —and she wonders if now is the right time to tell him.

Her hands curl protectively around her lower abdomen where Jon's babe rests, as Sansa raises her chin and draws from whatever reserves of courage that still dwell within her. "I am with child."

Joffrey is emotionless. He regards her with that same cool, indifferent gaze Sansa assumes is reserved specifically for her. "You have seen the Medicus?"

Sansa nods. Margaery and Olenna had insisted upon it, and he had confirmed their suspicions.

"Mother will be pleased," Joffrey snorts, as he shrugs out of his robes until he is clad in only his under-tunic. "It is about time you gave me an heir."

She doesn't know why she flinches at the bite of his words when she has come to expect them. But she does, as she watches with growing unease as Joffrey turns down the silken sheets, preparing to make himself comfortable within her bed.

"You wish to share my chambers?" Sansa asks, regretting the words as soon as they tumble from her lips—yet, all she can think of is Jon, alone in the ludus, awaiting her summons that will not come this night.

"Where else would I go, stupid? Or have you forgotten that you're my wife?" Joffrey snaps, as he settles in the bed.

"I just, l—I just thought that—"

"Do _not_ think, just do as you're bid. I've had a long day's ride and I am weary. Tomorrow we head to the ludus to check in on Ramsay's progress, after we break fast. Tommen tells me some new recruits arrive in the morning. I expect you to attend and look respectable."

"Of course, Joffrey." Sansa nods. How easily she falls back into the subservient, cowed wife, she thinks bitterly, disgusted with herself.

"To bed with you, then."

 _What of Jon?_ Her heart breaks at the thought that he would feel the sting of rejection for circumstances far removed from her own hands.

"I fear I am restless." Sansa shuffles nervously, her mind frantic for an excuse to slip away and try to get word to him. "I think perhaps a walk through the corridors—"

"Remove thought," Joffrey snaps, cutting her off. "I'll not have my wife traipsing about in the night unescorted. How shall that look?"

He pats the bed expectantly and, with her choice removed, Sansa does as he commands. Despite the sticky heat of the night, she remains wrapped in her dressing robe, as she settles beside him, doing her best to keep herself small. Joffrey has no desire to touch her, though; instead, he rolls upon his side, away from her.

Sansa thanks the gods above for small miracles—even as she damns them for the cruel games that they play. And _yet,_ she cannot believe that they would lead her to Jon, only to bear witness to her suffering. So, she closes her eyes, silent tears slipping down her cheeks, and places herself within their hands.

* * *

Jon paces his cell, feeling more like a caged animal than he's ever felt in all his years of being a slave—his deepest fear sprung straight from his breast to taunt him.

 _She does not summon him._

 _Why?_ He wracks his mind as he flops down upon his meager cot. His woolen blanket tumbles to the floor, but Jon pays it no mind as he twists Sansa's palla in his grasp, the pale silk slipping through his fingers—just as the woman who had wielded it.

He's angry. Angry because it hurts. Angry because he _lets_ it hurt.

He knows better.

"Jon," the gruff voice of Davos pulls him from his thoughts. He stands in the doorway, one of the villa's servant girls beside him.

"Doctore?" Jon scrambles to his feet, dropping the palla back down upon the place where he sleeps.

"Apologies." The servant girl steps forward and pulls a parchment from within the folds of her dress—if that's what one could call the slip of fabric that barely covers her body.

"A message from Domina," she says with a nod, then immediately takes her leave.

"Gratitude," Jon calls after her, as he eagerly unrolls the scroll—but the words scrawled upon it are naught but a blur of meaningless scribbles to his eyes. Like many in his station, he cannot read.

"Allow me?" Davos offers, taking pity on him when Jon balls the parchment in his fist in hopeless frustration.

He hesitates only a moment before he hands the message over. "Gratitude, Doctore."

Davos only nods, as he procures the parchment from Jon's outstretched hand. "It says—" His eyes drift over the message as he reads it aloud "— _'the lady's husband arrives unannounced. The choice has been taken from her this night._ '"

Jon sighs, feeling some of the tension drain from his body at Domina's written words.

And yet…

Sansa sleeps beside another tonight— _her husband._

Defeated, Jon slumps back upon his cot, Sansa's palla finding its way into his hands once again.

"I would share words with you, Jon." It is not a request. For a moment Davos says nothing, his hands fiddling with the handle of his whip, as Jon traces the embroidered edges of the silk he clutches.

"You have trained hard, and you have fought well, and over time, I have come to look upon you as a son."

Davos pauses, clears his throat, and soldiers on: "I do not wish to see you fall in the Primus as I did, Jon. I would see you heed my advice and get your head straight."

* * *

Her arm linked through Margaery's, Sansa steps out upon the balcony that hangs over the ludus courtyard. Her eyes instantly find and settle upon Jon.

She could watch him forever, she thinks—the play of his corded muscles rippling beneath sun-bronzed skin, slick with sweat and caked with dust—his agile body ever graceful as he spars with a giant red-headed man nearly twice his size.

Their eyes meet—grey and blue—clashing as intensely as the two wooden swords the men wield in mock-battle. Sansa catches the twitch of Jon's lips as their gazes lock, albeit briefly—the faintest hint of a smile, and she quickly conceals her own behind the flutter of the fan she clutches, her heart stuttering wildly.

She sends her thanks skywards to the gods, that Jon does not resent her for her husband's unexpected— _unwelcome_ —presence.

The _snap_ of Doctore's whip brings the Gladiators to a jarring halt, chests heaving as they move to cluster below the balcony, and Tommen yells down to the guards to bring forth the new recruits.

Sansa counts four of them, as they march to the center of the courtyard, lining up for proper inspection. One towers above them all, blonde hair cropped short, shoulders broad and muscles well-defined—yet hips flaring femininely beneath a narrow waist.

"Jupiter's cock, is that a bloody woman?" Joffrey balks.

Tommen nods. "It is not unheard of, Joffrey. Uncle Renly made the suggestion and offered to be her benefactor. She is called Brienne."

"And where do ugly barbarian women spring forth from, brother?" Joffrey sneers into his wine goblet.

"From the isle of Tarth."

"Well, I think it's positively delightful." Margaery releases Sansa to press an enthusiastic and encouraging kiss to her husband's cheek. "Renly proves to be forward-thinking, as usual."

"Stupid, you mean!" Joffrey interjects with a cruel laugh. "Whoever heard of a woman in the arena? It is hardly proper!"

" _Proper_ is just a word forged by men who wish to enslave us with it," Margaery retorts, her blue eyes narrowing as she snaps open her fan none-too-gently.

"She is magnificent," Sansa breathes, fascinated by the woman who would hold herself as an equal to the men around her— _their opinions be damned._

Joffrey snorts in disgust. "She is a beast. But if you all wish to watch a mere woman bludgeoned by her betters, I am far removed from stopping you."

The _crack_ of Doctores whip below halts conversation, and they quiet to watch him address the new recruits.

"What is beneath your feet?" he yells, as he walks the line of them, dragging his whip behind him in the dirt. "Answer! _What_ is beneath your feet?"

"Sand?" the biggest of the male recruits answers. A large portion of his face is marred by burns that his scraggly hair barely covers.

"Jon!" Doctore calls. "What is beneath your feet?"

Jon steps forward, wooden sword still clutched in his hand. "Sacred ground, Doctore. Watered with the tears of blood."

Doctore nods, turning to face the recruits once more. " _Your_ tears! _Your_ blood! Your _pathetic_ lives forged into something of worth. Listen! Learn! And perhaps, live as _Gladiators_."

He cracks his whip across the sand and points to Tommen upon the balcony. "Now, attend your master."

"Welcome to the ludus of Tommen Lannister Baratheon, purveyor of the finest Gladiators in all of Westeros!" Tommen opens his arms as if to embrace them, while his Gladiators cheer with his words.

"In the hard days that follow, prove yourselves more than just common slaves, more than just a man—" Tommen indicates Brienne with an outstretched palm " _—or_ woman. Fail and die, either here where you stand, or sold off to the mines. Succeed, and you shall stand proud amongst my titans!"

The Gladiators roar at his words, shouting: _"Baratheon, Baratheon!"_ until the bite of Doctore's whip silences the courtyard yet again.

"Doctore!" Joffrey yells down from the balcony. His lips curl spitefully, so that Sansa braces herself for whatever offense he intends to hurl. "I fancy a demonstration of my man."

Davos nods, beckoning Ramsay and one of the new recruits forward, until Joffrey's next words halt him.

"No. I shall like to see how he fares against a Gladiator." Joffrey's smile doesn't quite meet his eyes when he hisses his command, _"The Champion of High Garden."_

Davos looks apprehensive. "I fear Ramsay is not yet ready to stand against our Champion. His training is incomplete, and he does not yet bear the mark."

"When I want the fucking opinion of a common slave, I shall ask for it," Joffrey snaps.

"Dominus?" Davos looks to Tommen, who is visibly agitated with his older brother, but he nods and grants his permission nonetheless.

A wooden sword and shield are thrown at Ramsay's feet, as Jon steps forward once again. Still, Joffrey is not satisfied, as he glares down at the Champion with disdain, and Sansa squelches the urge to shove him off the balcony.

"Are they children? Sparring with wooden play swords? Why not give them steel?"

Margaery stiffens beside Sansa, and her heated outburst masks the gasp that escapes Sansa's lips. "You press beyond position—"

Tommen raises a hand to halt his wife's words. "It is not customary when sparring. They do not fight to draw blood, but to practice. Have you forgotten that my Champion fights in the Primus tomorrow?"

Joffrey shrugs. "Then he should be glad for the practice."

* * *

Jon glares up at the pompous little shit who stands beside _his_ princess—decked out in robes of richly colored silk and fine jewelry, while he sneers down at them all as if they are nothing. _So, this is the mighty husband?_ The man who puts his hands on a woman in anger, who could probably not even lift a sword with his delicate hands, let alone wield one.

It tears at Jon's heart that this pale shadow of a man gets to have her, to hold her—be everything to her that he cannot.

Sansa looks radiant beside him—the green of her gown sets her hair to fire in the early morning sun, and catches the blue of her eyes as her gaze hones in not on her husband, but on _him._

And suddenly Jon wishes that it were her husband he was meeting in the arena—liberating them both upon his victory. They could flee to the place she calls Winterfell, and he would happily toil away his time growing crops and filling her belly and their home with children—something he finds himself thinking a lot on lately.

But there is a more immediate opponent to meet at present.

"I've been waiting a long time for this." Ramsay smiles giddily, dragging Jon from his thoughts as he dips to pick up the wooden sparring sword and shield.

"For what, exactly?" Jon asks. He backs up to allow some space between them, slashing both his swords through the air as he assumes his stance. "To get your arse knocked into the dirt in front of your master? I am happy to oblige you, then."

Ramsay laughs and attacks first, just as Jon had anticipated. He waits for the precise moment, then sidesteps Ramsay's advance, cracking the arrogant fool in the back of his legs as he stumbles past.

"You move without thinking," Jon taunts him, easily evading the next swipe of his sword by jumping back, as Ramsay misses and stumbles again. "And you strike before you find proper footing."

"You talk too much," Ramsay hisses. He swings his sword furiously, blindly, and with no clear path of intent.

"I only instruct you to be better," Jon replies. His feet remain rooted as he ducks backwards, curving his spine so that Ramsay's sword just barely misses his jaw.

 _But it misses nonetheless_ —just as Jon had intended. He swings one of his own swords with purpose, finesse, and the force knocks Ramsay's weapon from his hand and into the dirt.

Ramsay quickly skitters away and grabs it up, spinning around to face Jon again. They circle each other once more, and Ramsay spits onto the sands in a show of disrespect, his chest already heaving with exertion, when Jon has barely broken a sweat.

The man is no match for him— _not yet,_ and Jon can end this at any moment he chooses, but sometimes humility is the hardest lesson of them all. A lesson best served to Ramsay and his wealthy benefactor, who watches from above with obvious displeasure as his man continues to falter.

"You're just messing with me, then?" Ramsay demands.

 _He is,_ but Jon shakes his head no. "You let your anger cloud your judgment."

"Shut up and fight me!" Ramsay yells, as he lunges forward once more, his sword finally finding purchase as it slams into Jon's chest.

"Good." Jon smiles, barely fazed by the blow. "But you lower your shield when you thrust, and you leave yourself open." He demonstrates the flaw by slamming the hilt of one of his sparring swords into the man's gut.

Ramsay doubles over at the assault, sputtering as he stumbles backwards and falls to the ground, landing hard upon his arse—as Jon said he would—while Jon advances, tossing one of his swords to the ground.

" _Missio,_ two fingers like this." Jon makes the sign as he stands over Ramsay, the point of his wooded blade held at his throat. "A plea for mercy. Surrender, so that you may live to fight another day."

"You would shame me in front of my master?" Ramsay glares up at him.

"You shame yourself if you expect me to throw the match."

Ramsay nods, and lifts his hand as if he means to surrender—but instead, he grips his shield tightly in both fists, and scoops a mound of sand upon it. His intent is immediately clear, but Jon lacks the time to deflect, and so he gets a face full of dirt.

He curses and stumbles backwards. The sounds of his brothers' _boo_ -ing, enraged by Ramsay's dirty tricks, rings in his ears as Jon finds himself momentarily blinded.

Then— _crack_ —he feels the pain of the blow to his brow, feels the flow of blood as it trickles down his face—thick and warm, hears the warning snap of Doctore's whip and the soft cry that rings out from the balcony above.

Jon swipes at the cut above his eye, his vision restored. Again, he waits for Ramsay to lunge as he circles slowly around him. Jon remains calm, despite the pounding in his head, and spares a brief glance upwards, to Sansa—his sweet princess who cries out for him, despite present company…

 _A mistake that does not go unnoticed by his opponent._

"A fine woman my Domina is, don't you think?" Ramsay goads, his mouth twisting in a smile that belies the maniacal gleam in his eyes.

Jon's own eyes narrow to tiny slits, two thin grey strips daring the man to open his mouth again. His lip twitches as it curls into a snarl—a predator ready to strike, he lunges for Ramsay, their swords colliding between them with a resounding _crack!_

"Oh, so you _are_ fucking her?" Ramsay manages a strained laugh, the muscles in his neck bulging as he struggles to hold his ground. "How delightful!"

Jon rears back suddenly, and Ramsay stumbles forward in the absence of resistance. But such a slip does not deter him from his taunts, and so he goads Jon further:

"Maybe when I'm the champion, she'll take me to her bed, too?"

White-hot anger explodes within Jon's stomach—his sense abandoning him, with the overwhelming need to silence the man who would insult his princess—

 _The woman he loves…_

"You stay the hell away from her!" Jon growls, and he throws his sword to the ground.

He pounces on Ramsay, knocking him into the dirt, his legs straddling the man and holding him immobile as he brings his clenched fist down hard upon his face.

 _Red._

All Jon sees is red.

Red upon his fists. Red upon the sands. Red upon the face of the man he continues to pummel, until Ramsay is an unrecognizable mass of bruised and battered flesh— _bleeding red._

He hears nothing—not the warning _snap_ of Doctore's whip struck close enough to stir his hair, nor the order of Dominus to cease. Not the shouts of the men above and around him, or hardly even the cry of the woman who shares her bed and holds his heart.

He feels nothing—not the pairs of hands that grip him, prying him from the man who'd long ago stopped moving beneath the assault of his fists…

Nor the bite of the shackles at his wrists when he's chained to the wall within his cell.

 _Just red._

Everything is red.

 _Like the living flame he sees when he closes his eyes, and wishes he could run his fingers through fire like spun silk._


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Just a quick note, as I'm not sure I mentioned it previously, but a subligaria is basically, underwear of ancient rome._

 **Chapter 6 - Tell Me We Weren't Just Friends**

And what the hell were we?

 _Tell me we weren't just friends,_

This doesn't make much sense, no

But I'm not hurt, I'm tense

— Friends, Chase Atlantic

* * *

"Come," Margaery says, and jerks a stumbling Sansa into the young Tyrell heir's chambers.

She's barely gotten both feet over the threshold before Margaery swiftly shuts the doors behind them, the rush of air ruffling the silks of Sansa's gown. The torches are lit, despite the absence of Loras Tyrell the entirety of her summer stay, and Sansa is perplexed to see her dressing robe and a fresh tunic splayed out upon the empty bed.

A clever plan, hatched from Margaery's head, though Sansa is not yet privy to it. But she has eagerly and willing done as she was asked—feigning illness and excusing herself during their evening meal—if only to get away from Joffrey's incessant bickering about what Jon had _dare_ done to his man. As if he had not fashioned it by his own hands and bore no responsibility.

 _"If he were my slave, I'd have him whipped within an inch of his life," Joffrey had complained impolitely through a mouth stuffed full of food._

 _"Well then it's fortunate that he is not." Olenna was tart, wagging her finger at him as if he were naught but an unruly child—and his behavior as they partook of their evening meal had not suggested otherwise._

 _"And whilst he may be a slave, he's also a Gladiator, doing exactly what he's expected to do, as far as I'm concerned. Your manner offends, forcing his strengths against a man who does not yet even bear the mark, as I have heard it."_

 _"I offend? Do you not cultivate champions? Where is the harm in wanting demonstration that my hefty sum of coin has been put to proper use?"_

 _"And by what degree do you judge that?" Olenna had snapped back, without missing a beat._

 _She'd shaken her head, inquiring of Jon's current whereabouts, and Joffrey had the good sense not to press the matter further._

 _"Shackled in his cell," Tommen had sighed, making Sansa wonder if he did so out of regret, or fear of retribution from Olenna Tyrell's sharp tongue._

 _Sansa almost felt sorry for him—such a gentle lamb poised between two striking vipers. Until the next words that slipped from his lips._

 _"I have seen to his comfort. The soft hands of a woman should both soothe and set him to purpose for tomorrow's Primus."_

 _What? Another woman? Touching Jon?_

 _It was precisely at that moment that Margaery's foot had connected with her shin beneath the table—Sansa's cue to dramatically plead ill and excuse herself. And so, mumbling her apologies, she had done just that._

"Ros, make haste!" Margaery calls, and a red-headed servant woman emerges from the shadows to help free Sansa from the layers of silk she's encased in.

"And the tunica," Margaery instructs, as Sansa's gown slips to the floor to pool in green waves at her feet.

Her under-tunic follows, and Sansa crosses her arms over her naked breasts, clad now in only her subligaria and the delicate gold chain that dangles on the round swell of her hips. To her surprise, the servant Ros begins to unrobe too. She shirks easily from her wisp of a dress and hands it off to a wary Sansa, then bends to scoop the discarded clothing from the floor, unperturbed by her own nakedness.

"Put it on," Margaery orders, reaching to pull the pins from Sansa's hair, as she does as bid, stepping into the servant's dress—if you could call it even _that._

The dress rides high, scandalously so, leaving the long length of her legs exposed nearly to the thigh. With no back or sleeves and a shamefully low-cut bodice, Sansa thinks she may as well be naked for all of her skin that's left vulgarly on display. Her cheeks immediately pinken.

"Now, now," Margaery—who somehow always seems to know the inner workings of her mind—chastises playfully with a click of her tongue, "we've no time for modesty." She frees the remaining pins from Sansa's hair, letting the fiery waves cascade down to cover her naked back, then gives her the details of the plot.

"Due to the delicate nature stemming of your illness, and with the road to Kings Landing ahead of us on the morrow, I had you brought to Loras' chambers, as to not disturb your beloved husband's slumber while the Medicus and servants keep a watchful eye on you," Margaery explains, as she secures the belted sash at Sansa's waist.

She feels another pair of hands upon her, as Ros returns, clad now in Sansa's own silk dressing robe. With quick and practiced precision, Ros knots the strap to secure the dress and fashions Sansa's hair in a loose braid, draping it over her bare shoulder, to hide the absence of a slave's brand.

"A trusted guard will see you safely to the ludus." Margaery presses a slender finger to Sansa's mouth to halt her protests. "Yours shall be the soft hands of a servant woman sent by Dominus to attend the champion's needs."

 _Just as Tommen had said._

"Gods be good, you are not the only ginger within my villa's walls, as Ros here will remain in your place." Margaery chuckles at her own cleverness. The servant climbs into the bed and draws the covers to her chin to demonstrate, leaving only the red of her hair visible from where they stand at the room's entrance.

"A most brilliant decoy to mask unavoidable treachery should your husband insist upon seeing to your welfare." Margaery pauses and a look of disdain flashes briefly upon her face."We both know that he will _not_."

Her words ring true. Words that Sansa knows should wound her to her tender heart, _yet..._ she feels nothing. She has at least a half dozen questions though, and _gods_ , but everything is moving so fast. "Margaery, I—"

"Yes, yes, I know, I am the greatest friend that ever lived." Margaery suddenly giggles, pulling her in for a quick embrace. "Ros will remain until you return, but do not over-stay. If you are discovered, we shall all be properly fucked, and by Jupiter's cock, I do _not_ mean pleasurably."

She claps her hands giddily. "Now, make haste."

Sansa nods, and slips the key within the folds of her borrowed dress, feeling fit to burst from her own skin, as Margaery opens the door just wide enough to wave in her trusted guard.

"Edd," she addresses him as he squeezes through the entrance. "All preparations are in order?"

He's an older man, short in stature, with dark, scraggly hair and sharp features. His eyes are kind though, as they travel upwards to Sansa's, who towers over him, more so than she does most men.

"Yes, Domina." He nods respectfully.

"Good." Margaery pats the man fondly upon his armored shoulder. " _Discreetly_ see my servant Ros to the ludus."

"Yes, Domina." He dips his head again, the hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth, leaving Sansa with the impression he knows she's not whom Margaery says.

It matters not, though, as with one more hug, Margaery is shoving her out the door. She follows closely behind Edd, keeping her head lowered subserviently, as he leads her quietly through the villa. Back through the kitchens, where servants are already preparing tomorrow's morning day meal, and down to the cellar, where a stone staircase brings them to a small room with a locked gate and shelves lined with clay jugs full of wine.

It's cooler down here—or perhaps it's only the lack of her usual fine layers that makes her feel so, Sansa muses and forces herself to remain patient as Edd fishes the keys from under his cloak and unlocks the gate. He gives it a shove, its hinges groaning as it swings open, and steps aside to let her pass through first.

She's barely taken a step when his hand closes upon her shoulder and jerks her back.

"Apologies, _Ros—_ " he puts emphasis on her borrowed name, and points down at the dirt "—but you're a bit overdressed."

Sansa glances down at her feet, still clad in her intricately adorned sandalias; she gasps at her mistake, as such finely crafted footwear would most certainly give her away.

"Gratitude," she mutters, bending to quickly unlace the leather thongs bound at her ankles with shaking hands, and slips them off.

The dirt floor feels strange beneath her bare feet, as Edd assists Sansa, tucking her sandalias within his cloak to safely conceal them, then shoves the gate open again. It slams behind them with a resounding _clang_ that echoes down the narrow torch-lit corridor before them.

Trepidation flutters in her stomach as Sansa falls behind Edd once more. She does her best to keep her head lowered, but once the corridor expands and they are flanked by a series of cells, iron cages on either side, her curious gaze wanders. Only a few of the cells contain men strewn about on cots or sitting upon the dirt floors, but most are empty, their doors hanging open.

"They gather in the galley to throw dice to pass the time," Edd explains. "Most are free to roam the ludus until the sound of Doctore's whip chases them to their cells for slumber."

He doesn't say to, but she skirts closer to Edd and lowers her head once more. The noise rises the closer they get to the galley but they pass through unnoticed, Edd's words proven true. Sansa's pulse quickens with every step as they turn down yet another corridor, this one empty but for a single wooden door at the very end of it.

"This is it, the champion's cell." Edd moves aside to let her pass. "I'll wait for you at the gate," he adds before taking his leave, but Sansa doesn't hear him over the blood thudding in her ears.

The door is slightly ajar, and a soft light emanates from within that beckons her forward like a curious moth drawn towards a dangerous but glorious flame. Her riotous heart slams painfully against her ribs, yet even the the fear of discovery could not keep her from Jon's arms this night.

The door creaks as Sansa slips past it, her eyes flitting around the sparsely furnished cell. It is devoid of any warmth or personal affects, home to only the barest of essentials: a rickety table, a meager cot, a simple clay basin of water to wash… 'Tis a far cry from the comforts she'd left behind in the villa.

And behind the door, his arms shackled with heavy chains to the concrete wall, stripped of his armor and laid bare but for his tattered breechcloth... is the man she would dare to risk it _all_ for.

"Jon..." Her voice cracks as his name spills forth, a raspy whisper from a throat gone suddenly dry.

His body goes rigid at the sound of it, but Sansa pretends not to notice as she fumbles in the folds of her dress for the key Margaery had pressed into her palm. Nervous, her hands shake as she reaches for the locks, yet she breathes deeply and wills them to be steady— _porcelain, ivory, steel_ —they are steel now, hardened to their purpose.

Her courage is rewarded with the click of the lock and the _clang_ of the heavy chains when the now-empty manacles drop and bang against each other, and Jon stumbles forward to slump against the wall. His body is rigid and unyielding when he braces it for support, his knuckles a hideous mass of gnarled flesh, bruised and caked with dried blood.

It is instinct when Sansa reaches for him—her hands aching to touch, to soothe away his hurts, to hold him close against her heart, offering the comfort she came here to give, but—

"You risk discovery."

The harshness in Jon's voice crackles in the heavy silence like the bite of the Doctore's whip upon the sands. It steals her breath when it constricts painfully around her stuttering heart, and halts her in her tracks.

* * *

"I would risk _anything_ for you."

Jon shudders almost violently as Sansa's words caress his ears. Like the sweetest embrace, they wrap themselves around his needy, aching heart, a balm to weaken his resolve.

He shakes his head to keep her words from taking root as he pushes away from the wall—away from the shackles that bound him to his relentless fear and anger for what had seemed like endless hours, hours of torturous thoughts. Did her husband know now? Surely Jon's actions, _right under the man's nose,_ had given them away?

And his princess... Her cries had reached his ears down in the yard, so he must wonder if his words reached theirs upon the balcony? His reckless outburst had put them both in such a perilous position, and while Jon placed no value on his own life, for him, Sansa's life held the very weight of the world.

 _He loves her._

Perhaps, Jon thinks, he has loved her from the start—from the very moment when her gentle eyes had captured his through those cold iron bars and burned a path straight through to his crippled soul. She had imprinted herself upon his heart and he could no longer deny it. To do so would be a bigger offense than the one he's about to commit— _may the gods have mercy on him._

Jon straightens his aching back and winces when he clenches his fists. It is torture to meet her gaze and offer such deception in the face of kindness, but he does so just the same. Hazy and blue—so blue he could drown in their depths _and in fact,_ could picture no sweeter demise—they implore him while he narrows his own at her, wincing again as the dried blood pulls tight over the wound on his forehead.

"Even your life?" Jon snorts as he tamps the urge to reach for her. "The notion offends me, as does your presence. _You don't belong here_."

And no truer words were ever spoken. She doesn't belong _here_ —not his sweet princess, in this den of miscreants and despair, where even a man's own life was not truly his own.

Sansa flinches at the venom of his words and it damn near breaks him. He had ridiculed her once before, cruelly reminding her of their difference in stations when she had ventured into the pits with Domina that night. She stands before him now, not clothed in her usual fine silk gowns and glittering jewels, but in the humble garb of a slave. All her gentle curves that he had mapped and committed to memory are on full display. The common rags in their dreary color are meant to disguise her, but they offer little in the way of squelching her radiant beauty, nor his body's primal reaction to her nearness, to his dismay.

In the villa, when they were alone in her rooms, Jon had somehow managed to convince himself that they were of equal footing. Even when Sansa sometimes watched him train in the yard, he felt strong and sure with her eyes upon him. But here— _here,_ he was laid bare and vulnerable, and there was no pretending to be had. For even the disguise that she had donned as a way to see him, seemed only to mock him in the flickering torchlight.

"My presence offends you?"

Her voice is so soft Jon has to strain his ears to hear her, but even in its quiet cadence, there is no mistaking the hurt Sansa feels at his words. It is in the slight furrow of her delicate brow, the quivering of her bottom lip, the slump of her shoulders when she releases a shuddering breath.

And this is what he wants, isn't it? What he knows he must do—protect her the only way he knows that is within his means to do so, to erase whatever fondness she may feel for him, even as the pain of his lies shred at his insides like the tip of a well-honed blade.

Jon squeezes his fists tighter, until the blunt edges of his fingernails bite into his already tender flesh. The physical pain he can handle—it's tangible and familiar. Not like the crushing agony of this battle that rages within him now; the hurt more intense than any blows he has _ever_ suffered in the arena. And _this_ battle will bring him no glory, no accolades… only suffering and the loneliness that has forever seemed to be his curse.

 _It was madness to want her, to love her. Yet, how could he not?_

"Apologies, perhaps I have misread the situation all along, ser." The words tumble from her lips with the same clumsiness of her gait as Sansa hastens for the door.

Jon's hand moves on instinct with the intense need to touch her, to keep her _here_ in this place where she _doesn't_ belong, but—

 _She belongs with him._

He snatches her wrist and whirls her around with a speed that has always served him well as a gladiator, pinning Sansa securely against the door to his cell. It slams shut with a heavy _thud,_ trapping her between it and the weight of his body.

Her startled cry is cut short as he presses her harder against the wood at her back, and Sansa's body immediately yields, soft and warm. The scent of rose petals on her skin is intoxicating, as her breath hits his lips in short, hot bursts of citrus. Jon keeps her wrist pinioned, further inflamed by the skip of her pulse that pounds beneath his fingers, matching the wild thrumming of his own heart as their heaving chests collide.

"I'm sure you have misread a great many things, my princess," Jon growls, his mouth but a mere breath from her trembling lips when he tells her the only truth he knows, "but whatever lies between us is not one of them."

"And yet you seek to chase me from sight." Her voice is naught but a throaty whisper, but her blue eyes blaze in defiant challenge.

A groan pushes its way up Jon's throat as he collapses against her, burying his face against the soft column of Sansa's graceful neck.

"What do you think I would I do if I were your husband and I learned of such a thing?" he demands as his free hand curls around the end of her braid. When she doesn't answer, Jon gives a sharp tug and Sansa's head falls sideways, exposing the pale smoothness of her throat to his hungry gaze—and even hungrier mouth.

"I would kill us both," he rasps his answer, the scruff of his beard scraping against her soft skin, marking it red with his attentions.

"If you were my husband—" Sansa gasps, her warm breath stirring his curls as she arches her back and offers all of herself to him "—you would _never_ see me parted from your side."

Another groan works its way up Jon's throat, culminating in a husky growl against the rapid tick of her pulse just beneath his mouth.

"Such sweet words you caress my ears with, darling girl." He sweeps his lips gently against her flushed skin and revels in the shiver that accompanies her soft moan.

"But you should not say such things." Jon draws back to gaze upon her face, the pain of his battered knuckles forgotten as his fingers twist in the silken strands of her fiery hair, loosening what remains of her braid. "And you should not be here."

Sansa's eyes flutter open, darkened and heavy-lidded with desire. She flicks her tongue against her lips and Jon's gaze follows—hungry, desperate—the mere memory of their taste more than enough to undo him.

"Your eyes betray the lie on your tongue," she counters softly, boldly. "I belong with you."

 _If only it were that simple. If only—_

"Say it again," Jon demands, pressing her more firmly against the door.

She shudders when he rolls his hips against the vee of her thighs—once, twice—her soft whimpers of submission giving way to a throaty, guttural cry that Jon longs to taste, to catch in his mouth and devour, as he would every inch of her.

 _But not yet._

"Say it," he orders again, dipping to lave his tongue along the delicate curve of her collarbone, and breathes his plea against the creamy skin there—roses and citrus teasing his nose. _"Please..."_

"Jon..." Sansa sighs his name like it's her salvation, the hand that's trapped between them curls against his chest—above his pounding heart, like her touch alone might heal all the aches that reside there. "I belong with you."

It's a balm upon his wretched soul— _his_ salvation, not hers—however undeserved. He is _nothing,_ nobody. He would give her the world, the life she's accustomed to, the life she _deserves,_ if only it were in his power to do so. But all he has to offer is himself—a paltry consolation prize, Jon is sure, but he will do all in his power to give her what she wants this night.

What they both want.

Sansa's gaze is steady as she leans into his touch, her lips parting and eager for his kiss. She tugs against his restraining hand, but Jon only tightens his grip as the last remnants of his self-control crumble and his mouth captures hers, his tongue sweeping past her lips to curl around her own—desperate and breathless and greedy as the way he feels.

She tastes of deliverance, of everything pure and decent Jon has ever thought to covet, yet knows he does not deserve. But tonight she is _his,_ and he is _hers._ If by the gods' will he should fall in the arena tomorrow, it will be this memory of her that carries him to the afterlife… _Sansa_ —blue eyes ablaze with want of him, fire like spun silk between his fingers, and her breathy sighs in his ears.

Jon's mouth is a brand, claiming her own again and again before moving to every bit of petal-soft skin he can get his lips around. The gentle curve of her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear… Each gasp, each moan, each twitch of her hips driving any and all coherent thought or reason from his mind.

"Jon… please," Sansa begs him, her voice muffled as she drags her lips down the side of his arm and pulls against his restraining hold again.

Finally his grip on her wrist relents, and Jon groans his own satisfaction when Sansa wastes no time shoving her hand into his hair, ever mindful of the cut above his eye. She fists his curls, her hips canting towards his and the friction she knows he can give her.

His cock is hard and eager to oblige when he snaps his hips back and thrusts up hard against her. The door at her back creaks in protest as she scrapes her nails against his scalp and cries out.

"Do you want this, sweet girl?" he asks, grinding forcefully against the apex of her thighs. "To know what it is to be mine again? To feel my cock move deep inside of you?" His breath is hot in her ear, stirring her hair as he coaxes what he wants from her, "You've only got to tell me, princess..."

"Yes, Jon." There is no hesitation, no timid shyness or embarrassment when Sansa answers—just a woman, _his woman,_ who knows what she desires, and she desires only _him._ "I want to feel you inside of me."

Jon drops to his knees, her bold declaration inciting him beyond reason, mouth and hands skimming along her curves on the way down. Sansa watches him, her eyes heavy-lidded, passion-glazed and pupils dilated, as Jon dips his head to press a kiss above her knees—first one, then the other, his thumbs brushing against the backs of her thighs.

He watches her, too, as he bunches up her skirts, his eyes devouring every twitch of her mouth, every _"oh"_ that forms on her lips, swollen and red and glistening from his kisses. He'll give her his cock—for who is he to ever deny his princess anything she wants?—just as soon as he gets his mouth between her legs.

"I would taste you awhile longer," Jon hums against the smooth skin of her stomach.

He presses a kiss just under her navel, delighting at her sharp intake of breath and the way her muscles clench and quiver beneath his lips. The golden chain around her waist glimmers in the flickering torchlight, its decorative charms jingling when he chases its length with his tongue.

The salt and sweet of her skin tastes divine—ambrosia of the very gods he would both curse and praise for her presence here this night. He tells her so in a litany of incoherent mumbling as he maps his way lower, lips and tongue painting the glorious canvas of her flushed skin. Her breathing grows more ragged, her whines higher-pitched and frenzied when Sansa's hips thrust unabashedly against his mouth, and Jon palms his aching cock to give himself a modicum of relief.

"My princess is so impatient," he teases, his usual nimble fingers clumsy while wrestling with the knot of her subligaria.

"And you, ser, talk too much," Sansa scolds him in a breathy rush of words, as she reaches to pluck the knot free and shimmies the cursed cloth that stands between them down her long, lithe legs.

She's barely shirked them when Jon ducks under her skirt and nuzzles his face against the mound of auburn curls that guard her cunt—half-starved and desperate to lose himself in the taste of her. _His_ Sansa. For she may yet be another man's wife, but it's _his_ name that will spill forth from her lips when she peaks— _his,_ and his _alone._

 _Mine._

"You are mine," he growls when he clamps his hands around the backs of her thighs. _"Mine,"_ when he pushes his tongue between her folds and latches onto the little nub that makes her legs quiver and shake.

"Jon..." Sansa sobs his name as her knees buckle, her hips thrusting forward of their own accord. _Just like that._

She rucks up her skirt so she can get her hands in his hair again, jerking his curls so tightly that Jon thinks she might scalp him, but considers it well worth it, just the same.

He grips her thighs tighter, his calloused palms scraping against her smooth skin while he sups greedily at her cunt, lips smacking, tongue furiously working her towards her release. He loves to see her like this—breathless and wanting, her skin slicked with sweat and tinged pink, reckless desire in her half-lidded stare while she chants his name and ruts against him.

For this is when she is _truly_ his. When she's not encased in the trappings of fine silks and a loveless marriage, and he is not a worthless slave, but simply Jon, her lover.

 _Yours. I am yours._

 _"Gods_ , but you taste so fucking good," he pants against her dampened curls, her cunt slick from his attentions and the way that she wants him. "Come for me, princess," Jon encourages her, his weeping cock aching and covetous of his greedy, insatiable mouth.

"No." The single word rides the breathy moan Sansa expels and dances tersely in the space between them. She loosens her grip on his curls and Jon pauses in his ministrations to gaze questioningly up at her.

"No," she whispers again, her chest still heaving wildly as she drifts her fingertips carefully across the cut on his forehead. Her touch is feather-light, gently smoothing the hard planes of his face.

"Together." Her hands cup the scruff of Jon's beard and she ghosts her thumb across his bottom lip. "Let us peak as one."

"Aye." Jon closes his lips around her thumb in a chaste kiss when he nods his acceptance, for who is he to deny his sweet princess such a request? "Together."

Her nails dig into his skin as Jon pulls himself back into a standing position. Little crescent moons marking his skin, they grasp for purchase when his hands slide around her hips to cup her arse and he scoops her up into his arms.

Sansa molds herself around his body like a second skin, an embrace of clinging limbs and lips, as Jon carries her effortlessly to his cot and sets her down upon it. Her glorious red mane spills like burnished gold across his threadbare blanket, shining like a halo in the torches' waning light. And she—an exalted angel here in the very depths of hell, lain upon straw, though suited for a gilded bed of soft feathers and sheets of silk.

She whimpers when he pulls away, a needy sound that has Jon shedding his breechcloth with a clumsy urgency. It hits the dirt floor with a soft _thud,_ and then his rickety cot is groaning in protest with his added weight as Jon drops eagerly down upon it.

"Open your legs." A broken, husky command issued as he crawls his way up their long length and settles in the cradle of Sansa's thighs.

His cock twitches as it brushes against her mound and Jon shudders, fighting the urge to take her hard and fast. To plunge deep within her infinite softness, to lose himself and ease this constant ache that plagues him—this need to possess her so all-encompassing, it is surely etched upon his soul.

It makes his hands shake and his breath quicken as it rattles in Jon's chest and squeezes violently at his thrumming heart. For surely, he has been bewitched by Aphrodite herself and she, the goddess of love and beauty, lays writhing beneath him now—both his salvation and his doom. And it's clarity that comes on swift wings to strike a heavy blow when Jon realizes with absolute certainty that he will _never_ love another, will _never_ take another woman to his bed, not even upon threat of death.

"Jon..." Sansa's plea snaps him back. Impatient, her hands tug at her dress. Its skirts are trapped, twisted between their bodies, a hindrance to the feeling of naked flesh they both crave.

Jon rolls his hips against hers, dips to catch her cries of pleasure in his mouth—a heady elixir of sweet wine and tangy citrus that mingles with his determination as he jerks the fabric free and up over her head. Their hearts beat as one, an erratic crescendo when their naked chests collide, and Jon eagerly reaches for the soft swell of her breast, his thumb grazing against the taut peak beneath his calloused palm.

Like a bow, Sansa arches into his touch, her soft, pliant body seeming to mold itself to fit the very shape of his hands, so that Jon wonders if the gods hadn't fashioned her specifically for him. 'Tis blasphemy to think such things—he knows this, and _yet,_ Jon cares little for the gods' ire when Sansa meets his frenzied passion with her own fervor.

Nails raking his tingling flesh and her shapely legs locked around his calves, she devours his kisses like a woman that has been forever starved of affection.

 _She is like me,_ Jon realizes it then, as he tastes the desperation on her lips, feels it in her every touch upon his heated skin. Shackled by circumstance, with fine jewels as her manacles and a gilded cage in place of cold iron bars. _She is as much a slave as I am._

Jon draws back abruptly, his gut clenching when a sob tears from her throat and Sansa clings to him all the more tightly, as if she could bind them forever by sheer will alone—a futile attempt to grasp at control they so sorely lack and yet so _desperately_ need. Control of themselves, of each other, of their intertwined fates and whatever injustice the gods have in store for them.

Wrapping his arms securely around her, Jon grunts as he heaves himself onto his back, gently pulling Sansa atop him 'til she straddles his hips. He may not be able to lay the world at her feet, but he _can_ give her _this._ The power she lacks, the control she yearns for—not because he is a slave beholden to her, but because he is a man who loves her.

 _She is mine, and I am hers..._

"Jon... I..." Sansa stammers shyly as she sits back on his thighs, confusion etched upon her delicate brow and uncertainty shimmering in the sapphire of her eyes.

"Do as you will, princess." He bucks his hips and sucks in a sharp breath when his swollen cock hits the soft swell of her stomach. "Your touch could never be unpleasant. I am yours."

His words lend her courage as Sansa gets her hand around him, her grip loose and apprehensive as it was their first night in the bath. She bites down on her lip—an innocent gesture that pulls a sharp growl from within the very depths of Jon's core. He digs his hands into the creamy flesh of her thighs in an effort to keep himself in check.

Sansa's grip tightens slightly, and then her hand moves suddenly with the precision of a practiced seductress as it slides his length from tip to base and back again. It's the sweetest of tortures and Jon whimpers as his hips chase her touch, until he can bear no more.

"Love me, Sansa." Jon's voice is strained, his plea hoarse with the desire that surges hot in his veins—a desire that he struggles to temper even as he places himself within her hands and completely at her mercy.

"I do." Her quiet reply wraps 'round his stuttering heart and constricts so tightly that Jon thinks he may perish from it. But _oh,_ what a sweet death it would be— _here,_ in this moment with Sansa's hands on his body, her gentle gaze on his face and her precious words echoing softly in his ears.

They linger there, a litany of love when Jon pulls her down for his kiss, his hand tangling in the fiery waves of her hair, the other pressing at the small of her back to bring her closer still.

"Show me," he rasps against her lips when their mouths crash together, tongues twisting and seeking, as greedy and all-consuming as this passion— _nay,_ this love—that would forever bind them even as it tears them asunder.

Panting, Sansa breaks the kiss, rising up as she reaches between their bodies to grasp Jon's weeping cock once more. She is a woman possessed, set to purpose when she stretches up on her knees, her long lithe body a feast for his eyes as she presses him, hot and hard and aching between her open legs.

His cock throbs as the fire between her thighs ignites and engulfs him—the brush of curls that cloak her cunt, her folds slick with want of him, so maddening that Jon's hands shake as they cling to her waist, guiding her down upon him.

"That's it, princess," he groans, his body shuddering violently at the pleasure bordering on sweet, sweet agony when Sansa sheaths the tip of his cock inside of her.

"I— _oh,"_ Sansa gasps and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, as slow— _oh,_ so achingly slowly—she eases herself down upon his hard length.

 _"Gods,_ but your cunt feels so fucking good, Sansa." Jon's words rush forth on a ragged breath, harsh as the heaving of his chest under the gentle weight of her palms pressed flat against his thudding heart, bracing her descent.

"Deep—" Sansa whimpers, her head lolling as she settles down flush with his hips "—so deep."

"Aye," is all Jon can muster. He reaches 'round to cup her arse, his hands firm as they guide her hips forward, then press them back. "Like this, sweet girl," he urges her onwards with a gentle upward thrust.

A guttural sound tumbles from her lips, feral and deliciously wanton, as Sansa rocks her body against his, her gait unsure at first, yet all the more erotic for it. Her moist heat laps greedily at his cock, the muscles of her cunt flutter around him with every twist, every roll of her hips, as she rides him in a frenzy fit to rival his own ardor.

Jon clenches his jaw, his hands sliding up to knead her breasts, unable to keep his own hips from canting upwards as Sansa rides him, reveling in this newfound power that she wields.

"Mine... you are _mine,_ Jon." Sansa claims him— _mine_ —she chants it over and over again, as she rakes her nails down the sweat-slicked skin of his stomach, marking him as she stakes her claim.

"Gods, _yes,_ take me." Jon throws his head back and cries out, moving with her as she conquers him. "Fuck me, Sansa. Make me yours!"

And she does—writhing above him like some primitive goddess in the torchlight, fire in her hair, her hands reaching for his face—

"Together." She pants the word, breathless, but no doubt a prayer, a plea, as their gazes lock, their fingers intertwine—grasping, clinging—and Jon knows he will never have it in him to let her go.

"Together," he swears, not knowing what such a promise means, only that he _will_ fulfill it.

For her, he thinks as his body trembles and she comes apart on top of him, for her I would promise the world.

* * *

Sansa's hands shake slightly as she weaves a braid back into her tangled hair. Words lay heavy upon her tongue, and heavier upon her heart when she smooths the skirts of her dress, hands skimming over her stomach.

But the silence stretches and remains. Thick and suffocating, it lodges in her throat and swells in her lungs so that it hurts to even draw breath.

"Sansa… you should not linger, darling girl." Jon's voice pulls her from her thoughts. Her eyes fall to his bruised knuckles as he adjusts his breechcloth into place and knots it.

He speaks the truth, but that does little to ease the hurt that truth inflicts. His words slice at her gentle heart—death by a thousand tiny cuts.

"I have not even seen to your wounds. I—" Her voice cracks and Sansa hates herself for it.

"Do not fear for me, princess." Jon closes the space between them in two long strides, his strong arms folding around her. "The gods themselves could not keep me from your arms."

The brush of his lips on her forehead is warm and firm when he murmurs his demand softly against her skin, "Lift your dress."

Sansa obeys, moving without thought, her fingers twisting in the hem of her borrowed dress, as Jon takes a knee before her. The sudden rending of cloth stifles the question perched on the tip of her tongue as Jon's calloused hands circle her leg, and he bends to press his lips to the skin she's exposed at his bidding.

"Keep me close to your thighs, princess." He smiles up at her, knotting the strip of fabric he had just torn from his breechcloth securely 'round her upper thigh. "The thought will warm us both."


End file.
